At the Crossroads
by SweetandUnknown
Summary: "'I'm Rachel Berry,' she says, walking over and holding out her hand with an air of professionalism. / 'Quinn,' you say, taking her hand awkwardly, feeling your new name leave your mouth with ease compared to previous weeks. 'Quinn Fabray.'" — multi-chapter, Faberry, Quinn's POV, freshman & sophomore year, AU
1. Chapter 1

**Summary: "'I'm Rachel Berry,' she says, walking over and holding out her hand with an air of professionalism. / 'Quinn,' you say, taking her hand awkwardly, feeling your new name leave your mouth with ease compared to previous weeks. 'Quinn Fabray.'—Faberry, Quinn's POV, freshman & sophomore year, AU**

 **Rated: M**

* * *

 **At the Crossroads**

* * *

at the crossroads, _as they say, which was the very instant you stopped looking for meaning and began rifling among the folds of feeling instead where things were to be made new again_

\- C.D. Wright "Like Something Christenberry Pictured"

* * *

 **1.**

You knew William McKinley High School would be the fresh start you needed as soon as you walked through the front doors in a freshly pressed Cheerios uniform. No one knows _Lucy Caboosey_ in Lima, but everyone had quickly learned that _Quinn Fabray_ landed a varsity spot on the Cheerios two weeks before school started. Your determination and athleticism earned you a spot just below the senior captain on the literal pyramid. As Coach Sue Sylvester's obvious favorite, you knew you would have a lot of pull at McKinley soon enough, that next year you'll be the youngest captain of the Cheerios since Sylvester's reign began taking home every cheerleading competition trophy in the nation.

Brittany took a liking toward you immediately, claiming that you were probably long lost sisters because you both had blonde hair. (You never bothered to explain that you're naturally a brunette…) Santana followed shortly after. It was established as less of a friendship and more of an alliance—a "triple entente" of sorts—to leave McKinley High as legends. Lima Loser status was not an option.

A month into school and you've already passed seniors in the school's hierarchy. You've learned a lot about yourself and your potential in the past few weeks, and now you find yourself unfazed by the most domineering coach in Ohio (or world, for that matter) as she tells you to take a seat.

You make sure to sit down with poise, as to avoid misshaping the pleats of your Cheerios skirt and hide your fatigue from the brutal practice she just dealt the team. Coach Sylvester leans back in her desk chair, taking off her glasses as she looks at you. You're her pride and glory, and you know this because she's told you.

She starts rattling off a list of more leadership responsibilities she wants you to take on, and you nod and answer with a firm and clear, "Yes," when necessary.

"Look, Q," Coach Sylvester says, walking around to sit on the edge of her desk facing you, "If it were up to me, I'd send Lacey down a river full of alligators with the finest sirloins wrapped around her just so you could take her place as captain this year. But because of rather pointless federal laws infringing on state power and the Cheerleading Handbook rules, a change in captain without 'justifiable reason' is just not possible," she shakes her head, as if the political system is personally ruining her authoritarian rule. "Still, I'm priming you, Q. I'm not sure where you came from," she holds her hand up to stop you from reminding her that you moved here from Dayton, "but you're going to bring the Cheerios another four years of National championships."

She dismisses you, and you walk out of her office feeling powerful—important—and you never really felt that way about yourself until you left Lucy behind. Everyone looks at you as Quinn now—your parents look proud whenever you arrive home from school, classmates step to the side to let you pass without insults or whispers, boys try to talk to you (if they're brave enough). Everything is in the right place for success, and with it, you can bury Lucy for good and ensure Quinn—popular, smart, attractive Quinn Fabray—will be the person everyone remembers.

You lift your chin as you stroll around the empty school, as if taking in your domain, while you wait for your father to call when he arrives to pick you up. You pause and look at your reflection in front of the Cheerios trophy case. You tilt your head to the side as you examine your toned body and perfectly fitted uniform. You aren't _losing_ Lucy, you decide; you're growing into a better, stronger version of yourself, shedding the parts of you that used to hurt, that used to send you running home crying—everything that made you hate yourself. You feel safe like this—confident.

You continue your way down the hallway where the sound of a few piano keys being tentatively plucked catches your attention. You slowly approach the choir room, and you can hear someone hum the notes and clear her throat. You stop mid-step once she begins singing; it's a terrible song, like a 70s ballad reject, but her voice is impressive— _stunning_ , really.

You don't move from your spot outside the choir room. Your lips curve upward when you hear the girl abruptly stop, sighing an " _Oy vey_ …" The piano bench scrapes along the floor briefly before she begins to actually play the piano. You recognize the song immediately as she plays the opening chords of "On My Own." You've heard the _Les Misérables_ soundtrack and even convinced your mother to take you and Frannie to the local theater to see their production of the play, but the way you hold your breath and feel your ears tingle in anticipation tells you this is different. Although she sang the previous song well, a shiver runs down your spine as she begins singing—not an ounce of heart is missing from the words. Everything Coach Sylvester said is forgotten, and all you can think about is the aching and subtle desperation in this girl's voice.

" _In the rain the pavement shines like silver. All the lights are misty in the river. In the darkness, the trees are full of starlight, and all I see is him and me forever and forever… And I know it's only in my mind that I'm talking to myself and not to him. And although I know that he is blind,_ _  
_ _still I say, there's a way for us…_ "

Unable to resist, you approach the doorway to get a glimpse of the singer. You see her long brown hair is held back with a red headband, and you watch her fingers move along the keys of the piano.

When she finishes the song, you realize you're standing in the choir room, and the both of you jump when she turns around.

"Sorry," you say quickly, briefly making eye contact with the brunette before casting your gaze to the floor—a Lucy habit that hasn't quite left you. "I just heard you playing, so… I didn't mean to interrupt."

The girl clears her throat. "Well, I always enjoy an audience when rehearsing," she says, primly standing from the bench, straightening out her sweater with an elephant stitched into it and evening out the folds in her skirt. Her fashion sense would be horrific on anyone else, but it kind of suits her, you decide. "I'm Rachel Berry," she says, walking over and holding out her hand with an air of professionalism.

"Quinn," you say, taking her hand awkwardly, feeling your new name leave your mouth with ease compared to previous weeks. "Quinn Fabray."

You realize you've seen her before, mostly walking briskly to get to class early, and sitting in the front row in history class, rigorously taking notes. She keeps her head down for the most part, and you assume she's trying to avoid being a target while everyone finds their place on the hierarchy. You recall one of the junior Cheerios making a snide remark about Rachel's knit cardigan with a panda on it.

"Cheerleader Quinn Fabray," she says, her brown eyes opening a bit wider as she drops her hand back to her side. "Of course," she adds, noting your attire.

"Is that my title?" you ask, offering a smile.

"You're pretty big news here," Rachel explains, her cheeks turning a light shade of pink. "Word is that you're going to carry the Cheerios to another four years of championships."

You let out a small, modest laugh. "One can hope," you say, watching as she nervously fidgets with her hands. "So, you sing…" you say to break the silence, for once wishing you didn't have the uniform on so that Rachel would actually make eye contact with you. You imagine a phone booth—running in and reappearing as Lucy. You shake the thought from your head; the world needed a Superman, not a Clark Kent.

Rachel nods eagerly, excitement in her eyes as she explains, "I have a lot of ideas for this year's Rhythm Explosion performance at Sectionals. Unfortunately, Mr. Ryerson doesn't appreciate my artistic tastes very much, seeing that I'm a freshman. Regardless, I'm hoping to expand on the club's repertoire. It's rather lacking, at the moment."

You bob your head in understanding, relatively surprised by how much she said and how quickly she said it, considering her discreet behavior in school. You guess she knows to avoid making her presence known because you've only heard terrible things about the school's crumbling glee club. Apparently the teacher leading the group is perpetually stoned and chooses to devote more time to the male vocals who are bordering on tone-deaf. Basically: Rhythm Explosion is an unsalvageable mess.

You're about to ask if she sings outside of school, hopefully to share her talents with a more motivated group, when your cellphone rings. You give her an apologetic look before answering. While Rachel returns to her sheet music, you watch how her body moves—her hands flipping through the pages, her stomach slightly expanding and contracting as she breathes—exactly as a singer should.

You hardly listen to your father and just say a quick, "Be right out."

"Leaving?" Rachel asks once you hang up. She doesn't look up, just adds a few bright pink post-it tabs to some music arrangements.

"Yeah; my dad's outside," you say, playing with the strap on your Cheerios duffle bag. "Thanks for letting me be your audience, Rachel," you add.

Rachel looks up at this, a bright smile on her face. "You're welcome any time, Quinn."

* * *

When you get in your car, your father asks what the smile is for.

You shrug and simply say, "I kind of like it here."

Your father grins, giving your shoulder a supportive squeeze. Your stomach flips as you reflect on the day—not quite butterflies, but not quite the drop of a rollercoaster. When you ask yourself what it all means, your smile falters, so you decide to tell your father about your meeting with Coach Sylvester, that it means you're definitely going to be captain of the nation's best cheerleading team by next year. He says he's happy for you, and you believe him—you're finally the daughter he can be proud of. The stomach flipping stops, and your smile is back in its place.

* * *

 **2.**

You used to find it annoying when your father would arrive a little late to pick you up after practice, but for the past month, except for game days, you've passed the time in the choir room with Rachel. You hardly speak to one another—you let her sing, and she lets you sit in silence. Occasionally she asks for your opinion on songs she wants to propose to the glee club, but most of the time you say you like whatever she likes. It works as a one-sided duet. You enjoy listening, and she appreciates her audience of one.

The past two days, however, your father decided to be punctual until you told him last night at dinner that practices will start running later to fine tune every routine for the Thanksgiving game half-time show and the first cheer competition the first week of December. Although Coach Sylvester has demanded longer practices, you _may_ have slightly exaggerated the length of practice.

Once the last Cheerio disappears out the front door, you make your way to the choir room. When you find it empty, the familiar feeling of disappointment reminds you of elementary school, when supposed friends failed to show up to any of your playdates.

" _Friends_ ," you scoff to yourself. You have plenty of people to choose from; there's no reason to feel let down.

You turn to leave, phone in hand to call your father, when you see curvy handwriting on the whiteboard— _auditorium :)_

* * *

Rachel looks up from her music when she hears the door close behind you.

"I thought I lost a fan," Rachel says, cracking a small smile.

"Nope," you say, grinning easily. "My dad finished up early at work the past couple of days." You don't ask yourself why you lie. "You relocated?"

"Better acoustics," she says, motioning vaguely around her.

You walk up to the front row and place your bag down.

"Despite the inconsistency of your father's timekeeping, I'm glad you're here," she says as you slip out of your jacket. Rachel clears her throat and you hear her shuffle through some papers, "I need your opinion."

You chuckle, tucking your jacket away, "How can I be of service?" you ask, hopping up onto the stage with little effort.

Rachel makes you choose a song to perform for the perpetually shrinking glee club. She looks disheartened when she explains that the group is only half the size necessary to compete in Sectionals. All of the members that still attend rehearsals are students in need of an extracurricular activity to add to their resume. You don't laugh when she confesses her theory that most of them, including Mr. Ryerson, appear "high as kites" at meetings that she's taken the responsibility of arranging.

You sit beside her on the piano bench and give her a sympathetic smile, "Aren't there other choirs you can sing with?"

She shakes her head, "No. They all require a drive, and with my dads' work schedules, they can't drive me to their rehearsals."

You nod. You learned Rachel has two dads from a couple of Cheerios who attend the same church as you; they both claimed their parents were concerned with "the liberals and gays" bringing their "agendas" to Lima. You've never said anything to Rachel, but you figure she knows everyone already talks about it.

"Don't you have a vocal coach? Can't they arrange something?" you suggest.

"Do you think I need a vocal coach?" Rachel asks, turning to you with a hurt expression.

"No! I don't—I just…" You see her façade start to crack, and soon she's laughing lightly. "Rude," you mutter.

"I had one since I learned to talk," Rachel explains, running her hand over the piano keys and tapping a few, "but the last vocal coach I had said I exceeded her abilities and that I'd be better off moving to New York to prepare for Broadway… Or Columbus at the very least."

You smile, knowing how desperately Rachel wants to be on stage, based on her song selections and her spontaneous quoting of Barbra or Liza or Julie. "You'll figure something out. I have confidence in you."

Rachel smiles brightly and sings, " _I have confidence in sunshine! I have confidence in rain! I have confidence that spring will come again! Besides which you see, I have confidence in me!_ "

You laugh. "Okay, Maria."

Rachel opens her folder and hands you her selection of songs. You eventually choose a song by Adele, always enjoying Rachel's take on pop songs.

You're all smiles when Rachel starts, but it turns into awe when she reaches the chorus.

" _Should I give up? Or should I just keep chasing pavements, even if it leads nowhere? Or would it be a waste, even if I knew my place? Should I leave it there?_ "

Something in your chest tightens. You take a shaky breath and run a hand through your hair. You continue to watch Rachel sing, and you watch her lips move and admire her long eyelashes as she closes her eyes.

"What did you think?"

You blink a few times and lick your lips. "Perfect," you practically sigh out.

"Thank you," Rachel says, grinning, "I'm glad someone appreciates my natural talent," she adds, flipping her hair in an exaggerated fashion, lifting her chin up.

"And your modesty," you comment, making Rachel's jaw drop in mock outrage.

You try and hide your disappointment when your phone goes off. You hang up after a brief exchange of words with your father. "That's my cue."

Rachel nods. "Tomorrow?"

"Same place?"

"Same time."

* * *

Everything hurts as you practically limp your way off the field.

Coach Sylvester was not pleased with anyone's performance last week, and since then, she's ordered everyone to run two miles at the end of practice, and an additional mile for anyone who doesn't run the first two in under fifteen minutes. Normally, every Cheerio could run a five to six-minute mile at their best, two miles in twelve to thirteen, but between morning practice, school and an already demanding afternoon practice, almost everyone ended up running at an eight-minute-mile pace. Because of the additional running time, you haven't been able to watch Rachel practice, especially with so many Cheerios making slow exits.

You almost said something to Rachel in school, but as you made your way toward her, Santana warned you that "Hobbits like her spread disease." You didn't argue with her, and instead made it seem like you were walking toward your own locker. As you pretended to sort through your bag, you finally understood why Rachel never approached you in school and kept her head down—it was for your sake just as much as hers.

"Chin up, Q," Coach Sylvester says as you grab your duffle bag from the sidelines.

You give her a strong nod and "Yes, Coach," before you pull your phone from your bag and make your way into the school.

 _Your mother and I got caught up at the country club to prepare for the charity auction. I can't get there until 6. Sorry, Q._

You groan, wanting nothing more than a hot shower and your bed.

You decide to take a shower in the locker room since you have your things from morning practice and you'd like to fall into bed as soon as you get home.

You attach your phone to the small stereo in the locker room, picking your morning playlist in an attempt to avoid falling asleep standing in the shower.

You hum along to the first song, pulling your sweat-soaked uniform from your body. While you like not having to worry what to wear on some occasions, you would enjoy wearing thick tights, a loose skirt and a sweater to school as it gets colder. But Coach Sylvester didn't invest a large amount of the school's athletic funding in providing five uniforms per Cheerio for nothing.

You practically moan when the hot water hits your body, and you simply stand with your face under the stream for a few moments. Feeling slightly rejuvenated, you wash your hair and hum along to the music. When a familiar song comes on, you let yourself sing along, letting your voice resonate in the empty locker room.

" _The trick is… you don't get on that interstate bus. The catch is… you stay and see what becomes of us. Shake! Shake! Shake! Shake the frame of this house, distress the wood, make it shout. Oh, oh, ohh, oh, oh! Oh, oh, ohh, oh, oh!_ "

You turn off the water and grab the towel hanging beside the shower stall, wrapping it around you as you wring out your hair. You keep singing along to the chorus as you make your way back to your locker for your clean gym clothes, happy to be putting on sweatpants and a t-shirt.

You're opening your locker when a voice makes you jump, "If I knew you could sing, I would've proposed a duet."

" _Holy_ —Rachel, you scared the crap out of me!" you say, clinging to your towel and turning to see Rachel standing at the end of the row of lockers, both hands covering her eyes.

"I promise I'm not trying to be creepy," she says.

You let out a short laugh. "You just surprised me."

"Are you decent?"

"Um, give me a second," you say, slipping on your bra and underwear and pulling on your sweatpants. "Yup," you say, tugging your shirt over your head.

"Sorry," Rachel says, her face a bit flushed.

"It's okay. What are you doing here?"

Rachel lifts up a moderately-sized tote bag, "I was practicing a few songs, and I came in here to restock."

"Restock what?"

Rachel hesitates before responding, "Just… gym clothes and necessary toiletries," she says, taking a seat on the end of the bench, "So, Cheerios has kept you busy lately, huh?"

"It's been brutal," you say, packing your uniform back into your duffle and pulling your brush out. "A lot more running than I thought. Normally I like running."

"I've missed you at my rehearsals," Rachel says, kicking an open locker back and forth between her feet.

"I've missed being there," you say, and your voice sounds quiet, more like the voice you use in church than in school.

"I made a Myspace page," she says, her eyes still on the swinging locker door.

You laugh lightly. "You know there's this thing called Facebook, right?"

Rachel rolls her eyes and gives you a fake glare. "For my music, dummy."

"Oh, that's good."

"I figure I need some exposure. Need to build my fan-base," she explains, smiling, "You know, outside of my family, a few stoners, and you."

"So I'm not good enough?" you ask, grinning as you brush your hair, enjoying the feel of it free from its usual tight ponytail.

"No, you're great," Rachel says softly.

For once, it's Rachel's phone that rings first.

"Hi Daddy," she says when she answers. She sounds younger and… happier. You notice her face flush, "Um… yeah. No, her dad's picking her up…"

You purse your lips to keep from grinning, busying yourself with packing up the last of your things.

"Okay, I'll be outside in a second."

You can't help but give Rachel a bit of a knowing smirk when she hangs up.

She clears her throat and lifts her chin, but her cheeks are still tinged pink. "My dads think it's very nice that someone appreciates my talent," she says. "They think it's important that someone else from Lima acts as a future source of information for the press—when they need to interview people about my humble beginnings."

You roll your eyes. "Come on, Barbra, before your head gets too big to get out of here," you say, hoisting your bag onto your shoulder.

Rachel brushes by you and smacks your shoulder with her bag.

You watch Rachel trot down the front steps of the school and get into the passenger side of her car, giving you a small wave. You hold in a laugh when her window goes down and her dad calls out, "Hi Quinn!" Rachel looks traumatized, "You want us to wait until your dad gets here?"

"That's actually him," you say, pointing to the Lexus pulling into the parking lot, "Thanks anyway, Mr. Berry."

"Okay! Have a good night!" he calls.

"You too."

You chuckle to yourself when you hear him comment to Rachel, "So polite!" resulting in a, " _Oh my god, can we go?_ " from Rachel as she rolls up the window.

You father pulls up a moment later as Rachel's dad drives off. You get into the car and give your dad a smile.

"Who was that?" he asks, watching the Berry's car turn out of the parking lot exit.

"Oh, um, no one really. Someone from another club after school," you say.

Your stomach flips, and this time you know it's because you're lying—you know something is wrong.


	2. Chapter 2

**At the Crossroads**

* * *

 **3.**

You found Rachel's Myspace page and although you don't have an account, you bookmarked it on your web-browser. You only managed to make it to Rachel's after-school rehearsals a couple of times before Thanksgiving break. Coach Sylvester graced the team with Sunday off, which meant you spent your day attending church and then volunteering with the church youth group. The next few days were easier practices because, as Coach said, "It's like waterboarding—I don't want to actually kill you all; I just want to get what I want from you, which is a perfect routine that'll knock the judges off their rockers and break their calcium-deprived hips."

With two days before the game, you're on your way to your first high school party. As a McKinley tradition, all the football players and Cheerios have their own "pep rally" involving large quantities of cheap beer and wine coolers. Coach Sylvester insists that days off "make the team soft," but she's forced to go along with Coach Tanaka's apathy and "school tradition." The actual reason is that McKinley hosts a bonfire pep rally the night before Thanksgiving that the whole town attends. Although you find consuming an absurd amount of alcohol before a major sporting event risky, Santana calls it "an official initiation," which she's looked forward to since middle school.

"Well, well," says one of the football players, red Solo cup in hand as he opens the door to greet you, Brittany, and Santana—the only freshman on varsity. "How are you tonight, ladies?"

Your inner Lucy returns with vengeance—you're entering a house full of the people who used to make your life miserable.

"Chill, Mark. They're in our year," says a tall boy behind him. He's not in any of your classes, but you've seen him on the field. He's McKinley's future quarterback and captain.

"Sorry, Finnocent, didn't know you had dibs," Mark says, stepping to the side and letting the three of you pass through.

You roll your eyes but mumble a quiet, "Thanks," to Finn as you pass.

He gives you a small half-grin. "No worries."

As soon as you step into the kitchen, Trish, a senior Cheerio, pulls you into a hug. She smells strongly of perfume and strawberry wine coolers. "Lacey! The babies are here!" she shouts over the music.

Lacey stumbles her way over, "Fashionably late, huh?"

A junior hands her a bottle wrapped in a paper bag. She smirks at the three of you before pulling a bottle of vodka out from the bag.

"So, girls… shall we?" she says, wiggling the bottle in front of you.

* * *

You aren't quite sure what you were saying to Finn when you were formally introduced to Noah Puckerman. You just remember snorting when he dropped the, "Most people call me Puck, but you can call me whatever you want, babe," line. You can tell that Puck is one of those guys who managed to grab the reigns of puberty before other boys in the grade—he's muscular, taller, and has a strong jawline. Finn's a bit softer, obviously having shot up a foot in height before high school, moving clumsily in a way that conveys his lack of familiarity with his new body. You wonder how he appears so athletic on the field in contrast to his everyday coordination.

"Quinn, quit flirting with these lame-os and sit with the girls for a bit," Lacey says, wrapping her arm around your shoulder and dragging you away.

"What do you mean you haven't chose your victim?!" Trish practically yells at Santana as you join the group of Cheerios surrounding the couches.

"Still considering my options," Santana says, looking nonchalant as she shrugs and sips from her wine cooler. You wouldn't know she was drunk if her eyes weren't so glossy; she's in character and in her element.

Meanwhile Brittany is wedged between her and the arm of the couch, bobbing her head to the music. "I'm thinking of being vegetarian, so I don't support killing animals," Brittany says.

Trish looks at Brittany confusedly for a moment before laughing, assuming Brittany is just drunk, and turning back to Santana.

"You know what you should be in support of killing? That midget's animal sweaters," another Cheerio says, laughing into her own drink.

Trish laughs, "Dear lord, _that_ would be a blessing."

"Rachel? …I think she's kind of cute," says a voice beside you.

All the girls in direct proximity turn and look at Finn as if he's sprouted an extra head.

"And _this_ is why we weren't talking to you," Trish says coolly.

"C'mon, Quinn, you have any suggestions?" Lacey asks you.

"For what?" you ask, sipping from your wine cooler in attempt to get rid of your dry mouth.

"She doesn't know Lima tradition," Santana explains, rolling her eyes.

"You choose an official Lima Loser as a freshman from your year," Lacey says, "And they should actually be flattered they get so much attention from us."

You take two gulps from your wine cooler as you shrug to avoid answering.

"Quinn's too nice," Brittany says, and you can tell she's being supportive, but you internally cringe as the older girls "aww" in unison.

"My vote is Rachel Berry," Santana says with a smirk.

Trish gives her a high five, "At least _someone_ is doing it right."

You finish your wine cooler in record time, and you hear Lacey laugh beside you and say, "I don't know; Quinn is drinking those two under the table."

"I'm going to get another," you say, excusing yourself.

You make your way to the kitchen as someone shouts, "Go girl!" after you. Your head is swimming and the fluorescent lights in the kitchen don't help. You find yourself thinking about Rachel, how talented she is, the way she smiles as soon as you walk into the auditorium. You don't think your body was meant to tolerate vodka.

You find Puck peering into the fridge.

"Get me one," you say, and the words feel heavy in your mouth.

He holds an unopened beer in one hand and reaches back into the fridge with another, but you grab the beer from him and crack it open as he pulls out a wine cooler.

"Hey! That was mine!"

You cringe at the taste, but look at the can then back at Puck, "Doesn't have your name on it."

Puck laughs, putting the pink bottle back into the refrigerator before opening his own beer. He knocks his can against yours. "To our freshman year… New beginnings!"

"Amen," you mumble before drinking more of the watery beer.

* * *

Lucy berated you the entire next day as your hangover wreaked havoc on your brain. You managed to recover in time for the pep rally, do the short routine without getting sick, and converse with everyone your father and mother introduced you to. It was still strange—being bragged about, your father wrapping his arm around your shoulders as he talks to other fathers about your academic and cheerleading achievements.

The opening cheer routine before the big game goes off without a hitch, and the Titans fans on the Lima side of the stands roar in support. The Titans trot out into the field as the crowd continues to cheer as the offense and defense starters are announced. Finn gives you a small wave from the front of the field, and you grin and wave back with a pom-pom.

Santana leans over toward you. "Nothing like a quarterback and head cheerleader," she says.

You roll your eyes. "He's nice."

"Seems boring."

The announcer asks everyone to rise and turn to the flag. You expect the band or a recording, but you hear her begin to sing the national anthem and immediately smile. You look around to find her, and when you do, you don't bother really looking at the flag.

Standing beside the football team, she seems even smaller. She's dressed in a red sweater, black skirt, and white tights. You bite your lip to keep from laughing when you see she's wearing a black beret—not because you think it's bad, but because it seems so… _Rachel_.

"Is that the girl?" one of the junior Cheerios whispers to Santana.

You redirect your attention to the flag and see Santana nod out of the corner of your eye.

"Didn't know Santa's Helpers were out this time of year," another Cheerio comments, making Santana stifle her laugh.

You close your eyes and try to tune them out and focus on Rachel's singing; she hits every note perfectly.

The crowd applauds her performance when it's over, and the Cheerios make their way from the field to the sidelines as the Titans get into a huddle. Rachel's passing nearby, and when you lightly smack her with your pompom to get her attention, she jumps like startled cat.

"Sorry," you say quietly as you continue walking next to her, "You were great."

She looks around nervously before saying, "Thanks."

Your smile falters when you reach the sidelines and she keeps walking without another word.

"Hey Berry," says a voice from beside you, "when you get back to the North Pole, tell Santa I want a new car."

"Maybe you should lay off on Santa's cookies, too," another girl calls.

If Rachel heard them, she doesn't let it show as she walks off.

"Why were you even talking to her?" Trish says, looking at you dubiously.

"She's got a good voice," you say with a shrug.

"Uh oh," Lacey says, "Quinnie might've caught some gay."

You're about to retort when Lacey tells the other girls to get into formation for the kickoff cheer.

"I'm teasing, Q," she says before taking her position beside you. "I don't want you to bother with the Lima Losers. Now let's keep the boys happy." She bumps your hip with her own and gives you a grin.

You roll your eyes at her, "Of course. If I thought you were serious, I'd have ripped your hair out by your pony by now."

Lacey laughs as you smile for the crowd. You can't help but scan the stands for a little black beret the whole time. Instead, you just find your parents in their nice trench coats, beaming at you—their perfect daughter, Quinn.

* * *

 **4.**

The Titans finished their season with a two-and-eight record, and all the boys immediately began to celebrate the off-season. You and the Cheerios, however, were just getting started. Although you're responsible for attending all the home games for the Titan basketball team, Lacey more or less resigned from her position as captain with the football season, letting her senioritus take hold. Most of the Cheerios have little to say about your leadership, but Santana often rolls her eyes when you speak with authority. She's challenging you, and you know this—Lucy would have backed down, but you—"Quinn Fabray: Head Bitch in Charge," as you have recently been dubbed—have learned to stare her down, or anyone for that matter, when she's being especially uncooperative.

"You're actually mildly intimidating now, Fabray," Santana said once after a practice when you had to tell off several Cheerios for slacking, "I'm proud."

This newfound intimidation tactic instilled some fear in most of the Cheerios, and no one wants to be the one to step out of line. The reboot in their drive shows in practice, and Coach Sylvester gives you a proud smirk after you deliver a lecture. Although Lacey still holds the title, everyone knows you're leading now—that you're the reason McKinley High just acquired a new Ohio Regionals Cheerleading Competition first-place trophy. With the school looking on, watching as other Cheerios move out of your way in the halls, you walk with your head higher, say the right things, and get what you want—you _are_ in charge.

Because of the win at Regionals, Coach Sylvester rewarded everyone with a Friday off and no weekend practice. The generous offer is obviously a sign that she'll be ruthless upon your return.

* * *

"Don't you have a raucous party to get ready for?" Rachel asks as you enter the auditorium.

"I'm skipping out."

"The Cheerio Cult lets their captain opt out?" she asks, raising an eyebrow.

"I don't feel like drinking the Kool-Aid tonight," you say, making her smile, "and I volunteer tomorrow morning for my church's food drive and soup kitchen. Sunday, too."

"Ah, can't be hungover while doing God's work," she says, shuffling through some music.

"Nope," you say, walking over to stand beside her at the piano. She's busy looking over some music, and you watch as she takes a sip from her water bottle. Despite the clout you now hold, you like that things with Rachel haven't changed—you still get to hear her sing and listen to her rant about the importance of music and performing arts. "What are you working on today?"

Rachel sighs. "Nothing, really." She tucks a few loose strands of hair behind her ear before giving you a bit of a sad smile. "I went to the glee club Sectionals competition. The other schools are really incredible."

You give her a sympathetic smile. "There's always next year."

"Until then, I have you."

When she looks at you, the air gets caught in your lungs as you watch her cheeks turn light pink. It's been happening more—you feeling breathless, her blushing and looking away—or maybe you're just noticing her eyes more.

"You should sing for me," Rachel suggests, "After all, it's only fair."

You laugh. "I didn't know that was part of the agreement."

"Totally. Didn't you see the small print?" she says, crossing her arms and looking at you expectantly.

You look at her pursed lips briefly before exhaling in an exaggerated fashion. "You're not going to back down, are you?"

Rachel shakes her head like a stubborn child, and you chuckle despite her adamant behavior.

"Okay, um…" You walk around the side of the piano and take a seat on the bench. You play a few keys, familiarizing yourself with the feel of them beneath your fingers again.

"You're full of hidden talents, aren't you?" Rachel says, leaning on the piano and resting her chin in her hand as she looks at you.

"I took a few lessons when I thought I could be a rock star," you say, "but I took up gymnastics shortly after. Turns out you can't play piano very well when you break your fingers every other day."

You play a bad rendition of "Heart and Soul," eliciting an airy laugh from Rachel, but you stop and clear your throat before saying, "This was the only cool song I learned."

Rachel nods eagerly, and although you're rusty, it sounds good enough.

" _Hey Jude, don't make it bad… Take a sad song and make it better. Remember to let her into your heart, then you can start to make it better…_ "

Rachel softly sings the harmony, and you almost forget to keep singing between listening to her and focusing on the keys. Rachel sits beside you, her back to the piano as you play, and you both continue your small, timid duet.

You let the last chord hang in the air at the end of the song.

"That's all I got," you say with a shrug.

"Well, I'm very happy you shared that with me," Rachel says, her voice warm.

You share a smile, and the entire moment is light—a reprieve from all the heavy burdens you've had to learn to carry in the past weeks. You didn't know how tired you felt until now, until Rachel took some of it and reminded you that everything isn't supposed to be so rigid and difficult. Sometimes things can be easy. Sometimes life isn't testing you, and it just _is_.

You lick your lips, and suddenly you're not breathless—you feel the opposite of hollow like Lucy, the opposite of grit and stone like head cheerleader Quinn. You're floating, and you close your eyes and let your body move freely—toward her.

She exhales, and you smell her sweet lip balm just before your lips meet hers. Your lungs feel full of grace, like your body is meant to live this way. She parts her lips, a soft inhale before her mouth presses against yours—still gentle, still earnest.

"Quinn…"

It's a whisper against your mouth, but you feel your chest plummet at the sound—an anchor chained to your heart and pulling you back into your body—back into Quinn.

You stand so abruptly, you almost trip over the piano bench. Rachel looks at you, hesitant, her mouth slightly parted as she tries to find something to you.

"Quinn, I—"

"I'm sorry," you say, and you hate how quickly the light leaves Rachel's eyes at your words.

You don't give her a chance to respond. You grab your bag and leave, walk out of the auditorium and the school into the cold December air. You listen for footsteps following after you, but they don't come.

You shiver as the wind blows, trying to steady your breathing as your heart thuds against your sternum. It hurts, breathing in the winter air. You blink rapidly to avoid crying because you don't know what anything means, and crying would mean you haven't changed at all—you're still that weak, confused girl you were just over a year ago.

When you father pulls up, you hop into the car without a word.

"Are you okay?" your father asks, giving you a concerned look as he puts the car in drive.

You shake your head. "I think I'm getting sick," you say, still shivering—quaking, avalanches in your ribs.

"You have to be careful, Q," he says, "Take care of yourself."

You nod, not trusting your voice, not trusting yourself to even look at your father because your eyes might give you away—confess everything you've hidden, including the parts of you that are supposed to be dead in the ground.


	3. Chapter 3

**At the Crossroads**

* * *

 **5.**

You haven't been to any of Rachel's rehearsals in the past week. You've taken the long way to class, looked in the other direction, and surrounded yourself with other Cheerios, knowing Rachel would keep her distance.

You know some people can tell there's something off: Coach Sylvester patted you on the back after practice (because apparently she likes this side of you), and Santana told you to "pull the stick out of your ass" after you criticized her posture in front of the group. You ignored it, like you ignored your parents concerned looks over several dinners, and the nagging feeling before you fall asleep—clouds and blue skies and a sudden plummet.

Your lack of sleep hasn't really affected your drive—if anything, you're using it as a distraction from the stress of noticing short brunettes with headbands or in skirts. You've gone running each morning on your own since morning practices won't restart until the New Year—the last week of winter break. Like your father said: _You have to be careful; take care of yourself_. This is the only way—you know what you're good at now, and you're not going to give it up because past insecurities crept up on you and confused you for a moment.

Still, you're not surprised when you're applying makeup in the bathroom and Rachel walks in.

"Hey," she says, staying a few feet away, her words almost silenced by the space between the two of you.

You swallow uneasily, but you don't say anything as you reapply some mascara.

"I know you probably don't want to talk about it—"

You sigh and roll your eyes. "You're right. I don't," you say, and it feels strange—hearing your voice come out like that, like the way you've learned to talk to people like Jacob Ben Israel.

Rachel crosses her arms, but not in her typical, stubborn way. She's wrapping herself up, and despite the urge to pull her arms away and put yours in their place, you direct your attention to your reflection and dust some blush on your cheeks.

"I get it," Rachel says, barely above a whisper.

You snap your blush shut and toss it back into your makeup bag.

"Being afraid?" she continues, "People seeing you for… _you_."

You abruptly turn and face her. You feel the heat in your face rise, but not in embarrassment. For the first time, you're angry at Rachel. "I don't think you understand," you say, setting the record straight. "What happened—that's not me."

Rachel nods, and briefly, she looks more nervous than the first time you met her.

"It didn't mean anything," you say, turning your back to her and examining yourself in the mirror, adjusting your pony before putting your makeup bag into your purse, "and I'm sorry if you think it did."

Rachel clears her throat and lifts her chin slightly. "No, that's fine."

"I want to be clear, Rachel," you say, walking toward the door, "I'm not afraid of anything in this school or this town. I'm not like you."

Her eyes are on the floor, and you see her bite her lip. "So that's it, huh?"

You pause, your hand on the door.

She looks up, and you want to take it back when you see her eyes. "You're just going to walk out? Pretend this never happened?"

"It didn't mean—"

"I _mean_ us being friends. You and I spending time together."

"I'm sorry, but I just don't have time," you force out, opening the door and reentering the reality that is McKinley High School.

* * *

The last day of school before break, you stand there, your mouth hanging slightly open as the girls around you laugh.

"I didn't know the Blue Man Group was here today," Santana says in a loud voice, sending the girls into another fit of giggles.

Rachel's standing in the hallway, her notebooks and cream-colored sweater coated in bright blue slushie. She wipes some slushie from her eyes and sees that she's the center of attention.

Sure, another freshman—Kurt—has been thrown in the dumpster by a few jocks, a mathlete's gotten locked in a port-o-potty, and a few slushies have been thrown at some band nerds—but this is the first time you've seen someone you know take a slushie straight to the face.

Rachel makes eye contact with you for a brief moment, then hurriedly walks in the other direction toward the locker room.

"Why so blue, Berry?" Lacey taunts as Rachel rushes by.

The crowd chuckles as they disperse, and some band nerds high-five each other, considering today a victory.

"Q!" Santana's voice snaps you out of your trance, pulling your eyes from the blue puddle in the middle of the hallway. A janitor rolls his mop bucket out, grumbling to himself as he cleans up the mess. "We're going to dip out for study hall and stop by the Lima Bean, are you coming?"

"Only seniors can leave school during study hall," you mumble, walking beside Santana.

She rolls her eyes and looks at you disbelievingly, "What is with you? You're captain of the Cheerios. You're hot enough to be terrifying and sweet at the same time, so use your magic and convince Ms. Kline to let us sign out."

You shake the image of Rachel's dejected expression when she looked at you. "Fine, let me just stop by my locker."

Santana smirks, "Awesome. Now stop being such a nerd. Once you snap out of whatever this emo-thing is, you're going to see all the privileges of being on top and stop acting like a chicken."

You glare at her. "It's hard on my back."

"What?"

"Dragging you around on my coattails," you say with a grin before strutting off to your locker.

"See? There's the bitch I like," Santana calls after you.

You let out a small laugh to yourself as you drop a few books into your locker and pull out your purse. You don't need Rachel, you think. You were vulnerable, clinging to the familiarity and desperation of that chubby middle school girl with braces. You won't hurt her, but this—this life of being on top—it's exactly what you wanted, and you're going to keep it that way.

* * *

"Have mercy on us, Lord," the priest says from the front of the church.

"For we have sinned against you," you say, listening to the conviction in your mother's voice from beside you.

"Show us, O Lord, your mercy."

"And grant us your salvation."

"May almighty God have mercy on us, forgive us our sins, and bring us to everlasting life."

"Amen," you say softly, briefly closing your eyes and making your own personal prayer to be forgiven.

* * *

On Christmas morning, your parents give you the typical presents: a cashmere sweater, a giftcard for J. Crew, a new dress for church, a Lima Bean gift certificate, and some spending money.

Your sister, abroad in London, sent you a few books. In one of them, she wrote: _I'm sorry I can't be there with you, but even more—I'm sorry I haven't been around. I hope you forgive me. I promise to e-mail and call when I can. I've done a lot of growing up, Luce, and from the photos, you have too. I'm proud to have you as a sister, and I always have been. Love, Fran._

After everyone has opened all the presents under the tree, your father takes a small box from atop one of the Christmas tree branches and walks over to you.

"Do you remember Christmas when Frannie was fifteen?" he asks, standing in front of you with bright eyes—eyes like yours.

You nod, silent, waiting for him to continue.

"It's a bit early, but… Your mother and I have prayed for you—and Frannie, too—that you'd both grow into the amazing people you are today. You have grown up to be such a beautiful, talented young woman. Our family—this Fabray name—is all proof of the blessings faith can bring. You make us proud, Quinn. We gave Frannie your grandmother's ring, and we hope you'll wear this with pride as well."

He hands you the box, and you untie the bow around it and open it to find your grandmother's old necklace—polished, made new—the gold cross shining up at you. You feel your eyes water, and you see the same expression on your parents' faces. You jump to your feet and wrap your arms around him.

"Thank you, Daddy," you say, your voice and chest quaking.

"We love you so much, Quinn," your mother says, standing and joining the embrace.

You can't remember the last time your parents wrapped their arms around you, and a light sob escapes you when you realize that you finally feel like a Fabray.

* * *

You look at yourself in the mirror, the cross shining as bright as the gold flecks in your irises. You hear the door open downstairs and your parents greeting.

"Good evening, Mr. Fabray. Mrs. Fabray." He sounds nervous, but he knew he would have to impress them when he invited you to the New Year's party at Puck's.

You take a deep breath before walking down the stairs. Your father is giving him a light lecture about being safe and ensuring that his mother knows your to be home by two.

"I promise we won't be late, Daddy," you say, gently interrupting before he could make any threatening intimations. You give your mother and father quick kisses on the cheek before leaving with Finn.

"How'd I do?" Finn asks as you walk toward his mom's car.

"Great," you say, giving him a smile.

He gives you a crooked grin before opening the door for you before getting in on the other side. His mother greets you warmly, and you introduce yourself in the manner your parents taught you at a young age. She smiles at Finn in the rearview manner, and Finn looks slightly embarrassed.

* * *

When you arrive at Puck's, you breathe a sigh of relief when the door opens and there's no beer in Puck's hand. He gives Finn's mom a friendly wave, and she waves back. Once the door is closed, he hands both of you cups of beer before leading you down to the basement where most of the football team and Cheerios are playing beer pong and dancing.

"Lame you guys can't get drunk," Puck says, taking a swig of beer.

"It's okay. I want to remember the start of the New Year," Finn says.

Puck looks at him with a cocked eyebrow, then smirks at you. "I'm fine with making my own memories and voluntary amnesia," he says, raising his cup.

He quickly joins some of the Cheerios with a, "What's up, ladies?"

Finn laughs. "Puck is… Puck. A good guy to have as a friend… but I'm glad I came with you," he says. He takes your hand, and you look down at your joined hands before grinning up at him. It's exactly like you dreamed of: holding the quarterback's hand and bringing in the New Year with the most popular kids in school. He hand feels heavy in yours, but you give it a reassuring squeeze and remind yourself that you're part of all of this now.

"Me too."

* * *

You kiss him at midnight. He's a bit awkward, obviously unsure where to put his hands, and his lips are a little chapped. You wait for fireworks, to feel lightheaded. Instead, you just feel your feet firmly on the ground, and his hands find a tentative place on your waist. You kiss him with a little more confidence, and he gives you a doofy little smile when you part.

"Happy New Year," he says.

"Happy New Year."

* * *

 **6.**

You can hear the whispers when you walk down the hall, hand-in-hand with Finn, head held high. Everyone knows that the senior captains are old news: You and Finn are the newest McKinley royalty.

All of a sudden, frizzy hair and glasses cross your path.

"I'm here with Finn Hudson and Quinn Fabray, McKinley's future football and cheerleading captains," Jacob Ben Israel says, "Rumor has it you two made it official on New Years. Mind telling JBI's Stuff To Know Podcast _how_ 'official' you made it?"

"What does that even mean?" Finn asks, looking honestly confused as he pushes the recorder away from him.

"No one even listens to your podcast, you creep," you say, glowering.

Jacob cowers slightly under your gaze, but directs the voice recorder back to himself. "It is evident from my observations that Quinn Fabray is definitely the power behind the throne."

You scoff and push him out of your way. He persists and speed walks alongside you and Finn.

"Quinn, you appeared out of nowhere, and now you're the most popular girl at school. What do you plan on doing with this power? What skeletons do you have in your closet? What exists behind those icy eyes of the new queen bee?"

You stop abruptly, causing Finn to be jolted back a few steps.

"Here's the deal, Jacob Ben Frizz-real," you say, putting on your best Miss America smile, "You're going to get that recorder out of my face," you say slowly, with chilling calmness, "You're going to go back behind your computer and write about your pathetic life, and you're never going to approach me again. Got it?"

He nods rapidly, looking panicked.

"I don't want you to misinterpret this, so let me be frank: You try to interview me or Finn again, the only thing in my closet will be your rotting corpse."

"You can go now," Santana says, stepping forward so she's shoulder-to-shoulder with you, her arms crossed.

Jacob goes running off, and Santana merely chuckles before giving you a wink and walking to her locker.

"That was…" Finn has a surprised look on his face, "You're kinda scary when you want to be… It's kinda hot."

You smile, stand on your tiptoes and plant a small kiss on his lips. A few Cheerios passing by "aw" at the sight, and you swear some people took pictures with their cell phones.

"I'm not going to let a social parasite latch onto us for some stupid blog," you say, continuing your way to your locker.

Finn casually leans on the locker next to it as you grab your books for your first class.

"Want to come over for a movie later?"

"Definitely."

Finn bends down and kisses your cheek, then makes his way to Coach Tanaka's office for a brief meeting about off-season training. You fix your pony in your locker mirror when you see Rachel in the corner of its reflection. She quickly returns to finding a book in her locker. By the time you close yours and turn around, she's walking to homeroom with her head down, not making eye contact with anyone.

* * *

Your movie date with Finn involves making out while a stupid action movie plays in the background. He's a bit of a sloppy kisser, so you do your best to guide him. He's learning.

When his hand moves up your waist, just below your bra, you take his hand and break the kiss. He apologizes, and you shake your head.

"It's… I want to take it slow," you say, "And I just don't want it to be a surprise later."

Finn nods, but doesn't say anything, so you continue to explain that you're "saving yourself." While your parents raised you Catholic, and your faith is important to you, you never really thought about premarital sex—mostly because Lucy couldn't get a guy to look at her, let alone date her or even consider having sex with her—but you find yourself quoting Bible verses you learned in youth group, justifying your reasons for taking it slow.

Finn gives you a supportive smile, leans down and kisses you softly. You take his hand and lean on his shoulder, pretending to watch the movie. There's so much about him that stands out as traits you never put too much thought into: His hands are calloused from football and working on his mom's car. His height makes it so when he kisses you harder, it makes your neck ache. His arms, more muscular than the rest of his body, feel stiff around you. He doesn't make you feel any lighter, but you know that this is the real world—he's the best thing for you right now.

* * *

"I don't know why you're so set on Chastity Club all of a sudden. Are you that scared of Finn being terrible in the sack?" Santana asks, filing her nails in study hall.

You scowl, but she just smirks. "No, I'm not concerned about that because I'm not concerned with sex. Sex is an unnecessary distraction, and it's not something I feel obligated to partake in in my relationship. We have other things to build our relationship around."

"I don't know," Brittany says, looking thoughtful, "Kevin is weird, but he's a really great kisser. We both like kissing each other, so I wouldn't mind having sex with him."

You blanche at this, wondering how long Brittany has been hooking up with guys.

Santana looks at her with an eyebrow raised, "Kevin? As in swim team Kevin?"

Brittany nods. "He let me touch his abs after swim practice last week. Then we made out. And now we make out a lot."

Santana scoffs. "At least someone's gonna get some."

You frown at her, but then give Brittany a sympathetic grin, "You should develop a deeper relationship with him, Britt. You might find out you have a lot in common."

"Mm, not really. We both just like kissing each other," she says with a shrug. "Don't worry though, Q. I'll make sure we make out in the deep end next time."

Santana turns a laugh into a cough. "Look, Britt's not in Chastity Club. She can do whatever she wants."

"Fine, but I'd like some support from my friends," you snap.

"Sure, I'll buy you a splint when you sprain your fingers after a hot and heavy make out session with Finnept…"

"What does that even mean?"

Santana pauses and looks at you, and after a beat, she laughs loudly before covering her mouth. "Oh, _Q_ … Are you for real?"

Your face gets warm when you realize what she was suggesting. "I'm a practicing Catholic, Santana. You know that."

"Hon, even Catholics gotta _practice solo_ before the big duet."

"That's why I couldn't play in the concert in fifth grade," Brittany adds, nodding solemnly.

Santana just pats her arm and smiles. "It's okay, Britt."

* * *

You follow the trail of purple to the locker room.

You didn't see it, but when you found some Cheerios laughing in the hallway, looking at a photo someone took of Santana throwing a slushie at Rachel, your stomach churned.

You didn't say anything to Santana, but she rolled her eyes when you didn't laugh at the news.

The locker room door thuds closed, and your sneakers squeak as you almost slip on some slushie. When you round the corner to the sinks, your chest aches at the sight of Rachel leaning on the sink, shoulders shaking as she cries silently.

You grab a nearby Cheerios towel from the neatly folded stack before walking up to her. She looks up in the mirror, her eyes bloodshot from the slushie and tears.

You don' know what to say, so you just hold out the towel.

She shakes her head, leaning down and reaching into the tote you recognize from the day she caught you singing in the locker room. You watch her pull her own towel from the bag, and you see another set of clothes beneath it. You clench your jaw, angry at Santana, the Cheerios, and yourself because Rachel had planned for this—she knew this would happen.

"I'm sorry." Your voice cracks over the apology.

Rachel says nothing, turning on the faucet and splashing some water on her face, then patting it dry with her towel.

"Why are you here, Quinn?" she says finally, turning to face you.

You look at her stained sweater, the white horse on it now dyed green. "I didn't have any say in this."

Rachel laughs dryly. "Do you feel better now?"

"No. I didn't mean it like that."

"What do you mean then?" she asks, facing the mirror again.

"I never wanted you to be a target."

"You know what they say about bystanders."

You take a deep breath, racking your brain for something to say—anything to make her look less hurt.

"You can go, Quinn," Rachel says, pulling a different sweater from her bag.

You shake your head. "I'll make them stop."

Rachel sighs, pulling her sweater over her head. You can't help but watch the way the muscles on her back move, or notice the small birthmark below her left shoulder, the blue and white stripes of her bra.

You blink and look away. "I'll talk to Santana."

Rachel puts her new sweater on, adjusting it in the mirror. "And risk ruining the _tradition_?"

"I never wanted to be part of that."

"You knew what you were doing when you put on that uniform."

You're silent because she's right. You knew what being a Cheerio entailed, and you've gone along with it. You went to the parties, you started dating Finn, and you're mastering this new position as the most feared and respected person at McKinley.

"You should go before your _friends_ see you consorting with the Lima Loser."

"Rachel—"

"No!" Her voice surprises you. It's loud and rough. She's never raised her voice like that, and you hate that her typically gentle and smooth tone, her usual pitch-perfect singing voice, sounds broken when she takes a shaky breath and says, "Please go, Quinn."

And even worse: You do. You leave her there, alone in the locker room.

You find Finn in the cafeteria and sit beside him. He kisses your cheek and gives you a cookie his mom baked.

"What took you so long?" he asks, his tone sincere, not questioning.

"I left a book in class and ended up talking to Mr. Donovan."

Finn nods, biting into his own cookie. He gives you a crooked grin, his cheek full of cookie. You smile before nibbling on your own. He starts talking to Puck about setting up weight training sessions, and you watch how his mouth moves, the way his Adam's apple bobs. Then you watch Puck's jawline as he chews on his sandwich. He catches you looking and gives you a wink. You roll your eyes before shifting closer to Finn, who instinctively drapes an arm around you. You feel safe.

* * *

She's practicing a song you don't recognize when you walk into the auditorium. Your feet move in a way that makes you feel like you're gliding toward her. She stops abruptly, facing you with her arms crossed.

"I was a loser for the first twelve years of my life," you say, licking your dry lips before continuing, "They called me 'Lucy Caboosey' because I was overweight and had acne and braces and glasses. I wanted to change, so I did."

Rachel's arms drop, but she doesn't move toward you, so you let yourself ramble, "I'm good at this, but… I'm still afraid of a lot of things, Rachel. I'm sorry that I ran, that I let people hurt you. That I hurt you."

Rachel bites her lip, mulling over your words. "What are you so scared of?" she asks, taking a timid step forward, closing the distance a bit.

"You. How I feel around you. That I'd give up everything I had planned just to take back everything I did wrong."

"Everything?" Rachel's suddenly before you, looking up at you with those brown eyes you haven't seen so close in what feels like years.

"Yes. Because this time I won't run," you say, almost a whisper.

You lean toward her, and there are the fireworks when your lips meet. You can hardly hear anything over the blood rushing to your head.

"Quinn…"

"Yeah?"

"Quinn."

"What?"

* * *

You sit up in bed as your mother stands in the doorway.

"What?" you ask, rubbing the sleep from your eyes before smacking your alarm off.

"Your father and I won't be around for dinner tonight. We're celebrating Valentine's Day with a few couples from the country club."

"Okay," you murmur, trying to calm your heart rate.

"I trust that you'll behave with Finn over?"

You roll your eyes. "Yes."

Your mother opens her mouth to say something, but you stop her. "I'm on the executive board of Chastity Club, mother. Please, _please_ don't try and have a talk with me right now. It's too early."

Your mother smiles brightly at the news. "Well then, have fun!"

Your mother closes the door behind her, and you flop back into your pillows. You close your eyes and try to force the dream from your mind. Your parents can barely handle you dating Finn, so you don't let yourself imagine the scenario where they find out you kissed a girl—a Jewish girl with two fathers.

* * *

Finn arrives to your house with flowers and chocolates that you'll most likely give to your father since you're back to training and dieting for Cheerios. You put on a movie, but you know most of it won't be watched.

You're lying on the couch, Finn hovering over you and kissing your neck when he clumsily shifts his position.

"What—"

"Sorry," Finn says, kissing you again.

Then you feel it, and push him back by his chest.

"I'm _really_ sorry," he says, trying to hide his obvious erection.

" _Slow,_ Finn. What don't you understand about that?" You're panicking. Not because you think Finn would actually convince you to have sex tonight, but because he is obviously turned on and you… you're not.

"I couldn't help it," Finn says, looking embarrassed. He grabs a pillow and puts it in his lap.

You sigh. "I know, I'm sorry. It's just…" You look at the crucifix on the living room wall, and Finn gulps as he looks at it as well.

"I respect you, Quinn. I do. I just… have a hard time controlling… _this_ , I guess."

You smile at him sympathetically. "It's okay. I think we should stick to slow. I'm not going to change my mind, so… if it becomes an issue—"

"It's not," Finn says hastily. "I like you a lot, Quinn. It's not an issue at all."

You lean across the couch and kiss him on the corner of his mouth. "Good. Because I like you too."

He gives you his classic crooked grin before suggesting a different movie to actually watch.

* * *

When your parents arrive home, he takes it as his cue to leave. He says a cordial goodnight to your parents before leaving with haste, as if he thinks your parents will know what happened if he sticks around any longer.

Your parents smile when they see the flowers, and your father ruffles your hair when you give him the chocolates. After so many years of spending Valentine's Day alone, you thought you'd feel different when you had someone to celebrate it with.

* * *

 _Swipe that V-Card for V-Day?_

You scoff as you read the text from Santana.

 _Chastity is a serious commitment I plan on keeping._

Your phone soon vibrates.

 _You're boring._

 _I'm Catholic._

 _Same thing._

 _Goodnight S. If you keep asking me about this I'll make you run laps._

 _Bitch._

Your phone vibrates again.

 _Gnight Q._

You put your phone on your nightstand and lie back in bed. You stare at your ceiling for a while, waiting for sleep to claim you. You remember Finn's embarrassment, his honest efforts to stop it from happening. You conclude that you're just nervous, that you'll reach a point when holding onto your virginity will be difficult.

You close your eyes and think about kissing him—his broad shoulders, running your hands along his chest, through his hair. You slip your hands into your pajama bottoms, hesitating before touching yourself. You feel around, trying not to scoff at your amateur explorations. When you rub over the small bundle of nerves, your hips jolt involuntarily. You stroke again, gently, and it makes your legs feel strange. You repeat this, remembering Finn hovering above, lightly pressing against you. You imagine running your hands under his shirt, along his back, feeling his strong arms.

You increase the pace of your fingers, your face warm from the effort. Then you're thinking about lips skimming over your neck. Hands—soft and careful, treading over your stomach before slipping under your shirt. Your hands tracing a small birthmark. A whisper. A kiss. Hands that aren't your own slipping past your underwear, stroking you.

You bite back a moan. A finger dips into your entrance, now wet, before finding a better rhythm on your clit. You imagine a melodic voice in your ear, repeating your name. When brown eyes enter your mind's eye, you feel your core spasm and shake, sending tremors through your entire body. You moan into your pillow, chest heaving.

As soon as you feel your limbs return to normal, the cool sheets around you, you let out a whimper before the tears slip past your closed eyes, trailing their way past your temples to your hair. More tears. More shaking. A sob. Then a prayer.

* * *

"It was Adam and Eve, _not_ Adam and his right hand," you say, glaring at one of the boys in Chastity Club who is obviously trying to find a loophole.

"So you're saying any kind of orgasm is a sin unless it's from your husband or wife?" the boy asks.

"Exactly."

"Babe," he says, turning to his girlfriend, "this club sucks."

She smacks his arm and tells him to shut up.

"Sex is sacred. Our bodies are sacred," you say, pacing in front of the group. "It is meant to be shared with one other person, for the purpose of procreation."

Finn raises his hand.

You roll your eyes. "Yes?"

"Is it true you can go blind?"

"If it makes you stop, then yes."

Someone in the room snorts, but turns it into a hacking cough when you scan the room.

"If no one has any other questions, then I'd say we're all set for today."

Some members of the group grumble to each other, but you ignore it, calling after them, "Only in marriage do we find God's blessing upon the act of marital love!"

Finn gives you a brief kiss on the lips before slipping out the door, where Santana walks in laughing. "Did you go to Jesus Camp or what?"

You give her a harsh look.

"Look, if you're having trouble with… _yourself_ , I can send you a few links—"

"That's a lap, Lopez."

"God knows you could use a few orgasms to lighten up," she adds.

"And another," you huff. "You keep going, and I'll enjoy watching you run five miles."

"Bitch," Santana mutters before taking her seat in the empty classroom.

You smirk at her, and she just rolls her eyes. You won't actually make her run if she stops now, but you'll let the idea hang over her head for the day.

* * *

You're collecting your homework for the weekend, eager to shower after Coach Sylvester's drills at practice, when you hear some laughter around the corner of the hallway. You close your locker and walk around to find Rachel surrounded by some of the upperclassmen on the team.

Trish has a piece of paper in her hand, reading, "'Proposal for Rhythm Explosion Funding to attend Regionals Competition. I, Rachel Berry, propose a small financial reimbursement be granted to Rhythm Explosion in order to allow them to attend the Regionals Competition in Columbus in March of this year. I believe it is of the utmost importance that McKinley's glee club be exposed to diverse performances in order to boost morale and solidarity amongst members'… Blah, blah, blah. Oh, Berry. You poor, delusional little dwarf," she says with a snicker.

"May I please have my proposal back?" Rachel asks firmly. "I'd like to continue to go about my business."

"You see, Bilbo, we all took a vote. Congratulations," Trish says, ripping the proposal in half, then again, "You're the biggest loser in Lima."

"I find it hard to believe that one can have a democratic vote on such a subjective elective."

One of the Cheerios mocks her as you watch from a distance, unmoving. You can feel the heat rising in your face as you watch the girls doing their best to cut Rachel down.

"Oh, it's easy," Lacey says, stepping forward with a confident sneer on her face. "With your ugly fucking sweaters and your outdated skirts? You dress like a grandmother and an infant at the same time. Then there's your nose. It needs work, or Photoshop at the very least, so you don't take up an entire page in the yearbook. Then there's all your friends… Oh, _wait_ —"

" _Enough_!" you shout, still standing a few yards from them.

The team turns to look at you, and even Rachel looks surprised by your sudden intervention.

"Aw, Q, we're just teasing. Right, Rachel?" Trish says menacingly.

Rachel doesn't answer, just looks at the floor as she clutches her books to her chest.

"I don't care. I said that's enough," you repeat, clenching your jaw as you hold in your rage.

Trish drops the shredded proposal to the floor in front of Rachel and starts to walk off toward the student parking lot exit.

"Pick it up," you say sternly.

Trish stops, spinning around with an incredulous look. " _What?_ "

"You heard me: Pick it up."

"What the _fuck_ is with you, Q?" she asks, walking past the group and approaching you.

"You're the upperclassman. You're acting like a child," you say, putting your hands on your hips as Trish stands face-to-face with you.

"I'm going to be really patient with you, right now, Fabray. You're the child here. You don't know shit about Lima, and you can be taken down easily enough."

"Is that a threat?" you challenge, staring down at her.

Despite your slight height advantage, Trish doesn't back down. "It's a warning. I respect you, but you better start respecting your own."

"And you better start listening. Pick. Up. The paper. Then hand it back to Rachel."

Trish scoffs before smirking at you. "I guess Lacey wasn't joking; you always put your crush on that midget before your sisters?"

" _Say again_?"

"I don't know how things worked in your old school, but cheerleading isn't for Lima Losers or lesbos," she hisses.

The other girls gasp as you shove Trish into the nearby lockers, holding her there by her shoulders. Trish tries to claw her way out, but you slam her back into the lockers again.

"Hit a nerve, Fabray?" Trish says, breathing heavily.

Your hands are tingling, and you hardly realize you've pushed her into the lockers again until she winces as her back hits the metal once more.

"No, I'm sick of your bullshit, Trish," you seethe, and nothing—your voice, your mouth, your hands—nothing feels like your own, "You still have a few months here. You can either go out on top, or I make sure everyone in this school knows that your dad is the only reason why you got into OSU. If it weren't for _daddy_ , you'd be a regular old Lima Loser by June."

"Whatever, bitch," she mutters, looking over your shoulder at all the other girls.

"Thanks," you say coolly, letting her go. You turn to the other girls, and some of them still have their mouths hanging open. "Everyone go home," you order.

The girls don't say anything as they start to walk toward their respective exits.

You sigh, bend down and pick up the paper scraps, your hands still trembling from the adrenaline. You hand them to Rachel, then start to walk away.

You hear her voice gently call after you, "Thanks."

You see the Cheerios in front of you stop first, and when they peer back curiously, you know they heard Rachel. They look at you with questioning expressions, and Trish raises an eyebrow at you with a mocking grin.

You look over your shoulder, seeing Rachel shifting the books in her arms. "Don't thank me, man-hands," you mutter. "I'm just tired of them wasting time on you."

You quickly turn back to the group, some of them sniggering, and you don't look back; you don't want to see the hurt you've caused. You did exactly what you promised yourself you wouldn't do, and you can't ask yourself who Rachel has to hold her, tell her that everything will get better. You know that you were the closest thing to a friend she had, and you hope she'll learn to put her trust in better people in the future.


	4. Chapter 4

**At the Crossroads**

* * *

 **7.**

You laugh tiredly, bringing your feet up to your desk chair and resting your chin on your knees. You look at your sister on your computer screen, holding a glass of wine on the couch in her studio apartment in London. She gestures with her hands, explaining her own high school experiences—"Slushies? That's absurd! What happened to swirlies?" She's six years older, and you've always admired her from afar. You were close as kids, but she grew up with grace and ease. You watched her racing toward the finish line, but your pudgy legs were stuck in puberty while she went off on her own.

You know she had her own trials, especially with your parents' standards, but Frannie has always been braver than you. Once she turned thirteen, you only heard her cry once—when she got her heart broken by a boy her sophomore year of high school. It was quiet, muffled; she never let your parents know how much he meant to her, so she kept it away from them—the sadness that they probably wouldn't understand or know how to soothe. The next day she went to school with her chin up; her grades never dropped and her participation in extracurricular activities remained as impressive as ever. She was still Frannie, and still the pride of the Fabray family, even if she was hurting.

Frannie stopped calling you "annoying" around the time she started going to high school and you started putting on weight. You realize this only now that you're older—Frannie picked up on your mother's passive comments about your appearance before you did. You tried to do your own makeup once before school in sixth grade, and the day ended with running mascara and blotchy skin from crying. Frannie helped wash up your face, and the next night, she showed you how to put on makeup. She made it look easy; you knew that it was probably because makeup accentuated her natural beauty, so you decided not to wear it until you had something to accentuate.

Frannie did her best in her years in high school to look out for you, but she couldn't stop the bullies, or your parents. She was gentle with you, and you didn't mind it—the pity—because it reminded you that you weren't invisible for those years. It's matured into this sisterly bond, one that couldn't have bloomed if Frannie hadn't learned to forget her last name in college and simply be herself. Of course, when she does visit, the Fabray in her returns, but once she gets your parents' nods of approval and it's just you two, everything she says is encouragement, all hope—something to believe in.

You haven't seen her in almost a year, so looking at her now, you really see the family resemblance—you actually look more like her now.

"Jeez, Luce," she says before sipping her wine, "You look so grown up."

"You know what that means," you say with a smirk, "You're getting old."

Frannie just rolls her eyes, reaching out of the frame to put her glass down and curling up on the couch some more. She moves naturally—something that took years of practice for you—and, unlike you, it's not a result of discipline. Frannie explained it once—unlearning the weight your parents put on her— _You just learn the right time and place for that Fabray fierceness, but otherwise, it's so much lighter once you're on your own._

"What's on your mind, Lucy Q?" you sister asks, tilting her head as she looks at the screen.

"Tired," you mumble, "Cheerios practices are rough."

"Mmm," you sister hums knowingly. "Being the head cheerleader and dating the quarterback will do that."

You scoff, "Mom told you."

"She wouldn't shut up about it. She said she's not sure he's the brightest bulb, but that _opposites do attract_ ," she says, mimicking your mother's voice perfectly.

"He's… sweet."

There's a beat of silence. "Wow," Frannie says, looking askance as she nods, "Please contain your enthusiasm."

"He is!" you say, laughing. "It's… you know."

"It's high school," she says, waving her hand vaguely. "High school is all about trial and error. Mostly error. Mostly a lot of screwing up."

"Yeah, I'm finding that out."

"I don't know, Luce. You seem to be doing pretty okay."

You nod, clearing your throat before asking her about her adventures in Europe. You're glad your sister doesn't pressure you to talk more about McKinley. You just nod and listen intently, hearing about the outside world you hope to see. She laughs loudly several times, and it's so much different than you remember—less like the laughs at the country club and more like… happiness.

Frannie eventually yawns, saying it's time for her to get some "beauty sleep" before her brunch date with a boy named Daniel from her art history class. "Keep your chin up," she says, giving you a small smile, "It's just high school. Rock it, rule it, own it. Whatever. You'll make it out alive. Promise."

You thank her, tell her you miss her, that you love her, and when Skype disconnects, you realize that the closest person you have in your life is the person furthest away.

* * *

For a few weeks following the feud in the hallway, you monitored Rachel. You watched her, made sure no one hurt her. You lied and told the Cheerios that Jacob Ben Israel was taking photos of Cheerios without them knowing, successfully directing all slushies away from Rachel and at him instead.

You ruled with an iron fist. Cheerios kept in line, Trish kept her mouth shut with the exception of a few mumbled remarks or scoffs, and you took the team to nationals. When you returned to McKinley with the championship trophy, it cemented you place on top of the hierarchy. Your face was on the front page of the Lima Press, and everyone was looking at you. The entire student body was either at your beck and call or moving out of your way.

Everyone except Rachel. Not once has Rachel looked at you.

* * *

"I cannot wait for summer. My Dad is taking la familia to Bermuda," Santana says as you both reapply some makeup in the bathroom. "You have any plans?"

"My sister will be back from London," you say with a shrug, "so she'll be visiting."

"Isn't you dad rich? Why no extravagant Fabray vacation?" Santana asks disbelievingly.

"With the move and everything," you say, excluding any mention of your past nose-job, "He wants to skip a year so the whole family can go, and Fran is taking a couple summer courses to get ahead. I think she wants to go back to Europe at some point."

"Sounds like she's got a hot European love life," Santana says, wiggling her eyebrows suggestively.

You roll your eyes, "She just likes it there. She's good at foreign languages."

"I bet she knows a really _cunning linguist_."

You glare at her, only making her chuckle in response.

The door to the bathroom opens and Rachel stops right at the entrance. You can tell she briefly considers leaving, but instead, she just lifts her chin slightly and walks into one of the bathroom stalls.

"Well, you don't have to go to New Zealand for Hobbits," Santana says loudly, "You have plenty of those here."

A few seconds later, a toilet flushes and Rachel steps out, not making eye contact as she uses the sink next to her.

"You know, Rachel," Santana says, leaning forward to look at her, "If you hold it in too much, there's a reason why people end up as anal retentive as you."

"While I appreciate your concern about my bodily functions," Rachel says, rinsing the soap from her hands, "I believe that's a concept typically associated with behavior in childhood development."

Santana looks unimpressed, not caring to get into the facts of the matter. "Whatever Gay Berry," she says, "You coming, Q?"

"I still have to finish up," you say, taking your lipgloss from your makeup bag.

"Okay, I'll see you in class," Santana says, giving Rachel one last look before making her way out.

Rachel faces you and leans her hip against the sink. You ignore her, applying your lipgloss, running your finger over your lips to even out the light shade of pink.

You eventually sigh but continue to focus on your makeup, "Did you want something?"

Rachel lets out a sad laugh, "For the most intimidating girl in this school, you sure are a coward."

You turn to her at this, clenching your jaw as you repeat her words in your head. She crosses her arms, straightening her stance under your gaze, but maintaining her look of defiance. You force yourself to keep eye-contact. You don't let yourself say all the things you've been repeating in your mind for the past month—the apologies, the pleas for forgiveness, the confessions. You considered making things okay between the two of you, but looking at her in this moment, you realize that the only way you can make it out of McKinley alive, like your sister said, is by keeping Rachel away from you. You got everything you wanted from your first year at McKinley, _earned_ it— _demanded_ it. Like hell if you're going to let Rachel antagonize you because you want to make the most out of your time here.

"I run this school, Berry. Are you trying to make life difficult?" You can hardly recognize yourself when you turn back to the mirror to fix your pony. You don't let it affect you, instead throwing your belongings into your bag.

"You're a coward, and you know why," Rachel says, her voice strong. You imagine it took her a lot of time to confront you about this, and you want to carry on having as few confrontations about _this_ as possible in the future.

"Having priorities doesn't make me a coward. I'm not the one hung up on things," you say, hoisting your bag onto your shoulder and facing her again.

Rachel takes a deep breath, then a tentative step toward you. "I don't understand this."

"Clearly," you say, swallowing uneasily.

Rachel grimaces at your cool tone. "I don't know who hurt you so terribly," she says, her voice breaking slightly, "but I feel sorry for you."

"No, Rachel. I feel sorry for you," you say, and you blink rapidly to keep the burning in your eyes under control, "That you honestly think a pretty voice is enough of a reason to get respect around here."

Rachel's eyes are shimmering, but when she speaks, her voice is strong. "It might not get respect around here, but I'll never stop until I'm out of this place. You're more than a cheerleader and a showmance, Quinn."

You scoff, closing your eyes to ground yourself. " _Showmance?_ You think that's what all this is?" you ask incredulously, "It's high school, and I'm going to fly right through this place with the best networks, the best support, and the best grades in this entire school. It's not a matter of merely surviving—I'll dominate this place while I'm here, get out, and never look back. You know," you laugh coldly, "this jealousy thing is as flattering on you as those sweaters you insist on wearing."

" _Jealousy_?"

"Of me. Of me and Finn. You can't get a guy to look at you, and you're jealous."

Rachel laughs darkly, "Wow," she shakes her head, "You're delusional."

"No, I see everything clearly," you say, taking a stride toward her so she has to look up at you, "You're the one living in some fantasy world."

"You know, I was waiting for you," she says quietly.

"We didn't _break up_ , Rachel," you say from gritted teeth, "You wanted to stay in your little world in the auditorium, and I want the real thing. I want to take home a nationals' trophy every year and do everything to get out of this town. You can keep dreaming." You turn on your heel and make your way toward the door.

"I thought you'd apologize," she says, stopping you. Her voice is steady, but there's a somber tone that wasn't there before, "I thought you'd realize who you really are."

You turn to her and gesture to yourself, "This is me, Rachel! Whether you like it or not."

"Then I think I'm giving up on you, Quinn Fabray."

With that, you open your mouth to say something, but nothing comes out. Rachel shakes her head once more and walks past you, out of the bathroom.

* * *

 **8.**

Your vision keeps swimming as you look at your laptop in your lap. You drank more than a few shots at Puck's party ("Smashed Summer Kick-Off" as he called it), kissed Finn incessantly, and danced with Santana and Brittany in the living room for most of the night. After successfully sneaking back into your house and making your way up to your room with some difficulty, you changed into some comfortable clothes and got into bed.

If you could see yourself—if this were anyone but you—you're sure you would laugh. With the sheet pulled over your head, you stare at your laptop screen for a few moments. You open a private window and slowly type out a few words. You hold your breath and press enter.

You bite your lip and read the page: _cunnilingus, tribadism, g-spot, clitoris_ …

There are some illustrations, and you find yourself tilting your head and squinting to examine some of them. You feel strange, trying to garner what you can from the rough drawings. It feels like health class—the way your chest sort of tightens when you look at the diagrams, so similar to the ones you flipped over when your teacher passed them out last year for the sex education unit.

When you click another page, your heart races when you discover photos. Your hand moves quickly to the track pad to close out of the window, but you hesitate, scanning the top of the page briefly. You return the mouse to its original position and scroll down, looking from picture to picture.

Most of them involve extremely dramatic facial expressions and contortionist-like poses. You bite your lip when you pause to look at a photo of a topless brunette, her naked chest heaving. A blonde is between her legs, an arm reaching up and grasping one of the brunette's breasts. You feel your stomach coil and a tightening between your legs. You bring your hand down to alleviate some of the pressure, and you swallow uneasily when you find your underwear is wet.

You reach a photo of a girl in a pleated skirt and knee socks, her panties down around her thighs as she touches herself. You clench your jaw at the feeling of your pulse between your legs, so you quickly exit out of the window, suddenly flushed and unable to calm your breathing.

You shut down your laptop and drop it beside your bed, falling back into your pillows. You feel disgusted with yourself, unsteady inhales and exhales rattling your lungs.

 _I'm just drunk_ , you repeat to yourself. You find your cross necklace, and you grasp it tightly so you can feel the edges digging into your palm.

* * *

He tastes like beer, and you drank half a wine cooler. He opens a condom, and you watch him put it on. You don't look long because you're nervous and mildly disturbed by his erection, the fact that part of him is meant to be inside you. You make him kiss you when he lies between your legs. You think this might explain things; maybe you'll feel different after this—maybe you don't feel the way you should because you've only been with Finn.

You run your hands through Puck's mohawk as he pushes into you, and he grunts a bit. You cringe at the pain, and he asks if you're okay. You nod, take a deep breath to relax as much as possible, and kiss him. He's gentle, but it feels uncomfortable regardless—foreign, intrusive, awkward. It doesn't last long, and you don't feel very different when you watch him tie off the condom and drop it into the garbage beside his bed.

"You okay?" he asks, lying beside you, watching as you pull the sheets up to cover your body.

You nod.

"It's just casual, Quinn," Puck says, "Don't feel guilty."

"I don't," you snap, "It doesn't mean anything."

"Good," he says, giving your cheek a kiss, "Glad we understand."

* * *

You have sex with Puck again, and this time it doesn't hurt as much because this time you imagine softer hands between your legs and this time you keep your eyes closed most of the time except when you're looking at the ceiling as he pushes into you.

He comes after a few minutes, and this time you put on your clothes and leave before he can say anything.

* * *

You glare at Puck across the room at one of his parties. He gives you a subtle wink, so you wrap your arms around Finn's waist. Finn pulls you closer without much thought as he continues to talk to Mike.

* * *

With your eyes closed, you imagine a different set of lips on your chest, a gentler kind of breathing in your ear, longer hair between your fingers. You almost come, but Puck comes first.

* * *

You make a rule that Puck can't ask you if you're okay anymore. It's annoying, and you're fine. You ignore his concerned looks, the way he brushes the hair from your face and kisses your forehead after you have sex. It's relatively new behavior, but you're set on ignoring it.

* * *

Puck fucks you against the wall of the garage when the two of you managed to escape the drunken crowd of classmates at one of the senior Cheerio's parties. Puck's learned to last longer, but you've learned to fake orgasms.

* * *

You cry on the toilet, waiting for the pregnancy test result to show. You wonder if the feelings you're supposed to have will come with a positive result—if being pregnant would be the most normal thing that could come from all of this. You never imagined actually hoping for a mistake.

* * *

The result is negative. You go for a run and throw the pregnancy test out in a park garbage, where your parents won't find it.

* * *

You get your period, and you don't tell Puck that you were a week late. There isn't any reason to scare him. This entire situation has never been about being afraid of Puck—only about you and this fog you keep carrying around in your lungs.

* * *

"This was the last time," you say, tying your shoes as you sit at the end of his bed.

"What?" he asks, sitting up, still half-lidded and coming out of his postcoital haze.

"I'm with Finn," you say, standing up and turning to look at him, still naked in bed.

"That hasn't stopped us all summer…"

"No," you say with a sigh, pulling your hair up, "but it was supposed to stay casual."

"It is."

"No, Puck," you say, picking up your gym bag—you've told your parents you're going to the YMCA to work out all summer, and while you have on occasion, they don't know about these other workouts. "It was good for the summer, but it ends now."

"What's changed?"

"Nothing has," you say, deciding to leave out the observed differences in his behavior toward you—the way he started taking your hand during sex, his soft kisses even when you weren't having sex, "I just changed my mind."

You watch the muscles in his jaw move as he keeps his mouth clenched tight. He gives you a small nod of understanding, and you leave without another word.

When you get outside into the suffocating heat, you make your way home and stifle the sobs and shaking that won't leave your bones. You aren't afraid of Puck and how he feels about you. You aren't upset that you had to end things. You feel distressed only because when you left, you felt relieved, and you know this still has nothing to do with him and everything to do with you.


	5. Chapter 5

**At the Crossroads**

* * *

 **9.**

Santana puts an arm on Brittany's to get her to stop dancing along to "Don't Stop Believing." You watch as Rachel walks around Finn, tracing her hand around his waist. She sounds incredible, and even though you spent the first week of school looking in every direction but hers, you knew there would come a point when you'd see her—hear the voice that drew you into the choir room the first time you met. You continue to watch her and Finn and a few other social outcasts on stage, the stage you used to sit on with her, just the two of you.

As you lead the way out of the auditorium, Santana makes some quip about your "murder eyes."

"Do I get to slushie her again?" Santana asks with child-like excitement, following you out of the school.

"No, we're joining."

"Um, sorry, but that sounded like you said we were joining that popularity suicide group," Santana says, quirking an eyebrow.

"I don't like Kool-Aid," Brittany says, shaking her head with her eyes open wide.

"It's not a cult, Britt," you clarify before directing your attention to Santana, "We join and I get Finn to quit, and everything goes back to normal."

"Coach will never let us."

"If I get Finn, that club won't have the lead they need. Berry can't manage that group on her own," you explain. You open the door to the student parking lot, making your way to Santana's car.

"Then why don't you just tell Finn to drop out?" Santana asks, looking absolutely averse to the idea of dancing around on stage with the McKinley peasantry.

"Everyone will know it was me, and I don't want Jacob sticking his grubby hands and recorder in my face asking to comment about wearing the pants in the relationship," you say, getting into Santana's car. You thank God that Santana turned sixteen and promptly got her license this past summer.

"You kind of do wear the pants," Santana comments with a smirk, settling into the driver's seat.

"San," Brittany says with a sigh, "That's not right. She's always in her uniform like she's supposed to be."

You and Santana look at one another before deciding to let that one pass.

"Let's meet with Coach tomorrow and let her know our plan, then we audition," you say with determination. "This stupid nerdfest ends now."

"Fine. I choose the song."

You laugh sardonically, "No way. I'm choosing. We have to be shining examples to get in—really become part of it in order to tear it down."

"You need to stop meeting with Coach so often," Santana says, an amused smile playing at her lips. "But I'm down."

"Good."

* * *

When you arrive home, you go through your iTunes for an appropriate song to perform for Mr. Schuester. You play with the cross on your necklace, and try to distract yourself from thinking about the way Rachel looked at Finn—from remembering the way she used to look at you for approval after finishing a song. You close your eyes and repeat some Bible verses in your head to clear your mind.

Once you open your eyes and continue scrolling through your music, you find the perfect song.

* * *

Upon arrival at school, you don't say a word before dragging Finn into an empty classroom. You chastise him for joining the "gayest club at school," that he's put you in a position of the high school's most popular "beard." His defense seems weak, and he cowers slightly under your glare. You huff and tell him you're joining, and his eyes light up at this.

"This is only because I care about you, Finn," you manage to say, "And hopefully we'll both get out of it before something embarrassing happens."

Finn frowns, but manages a small smile before kissing your cheek.

You walk out of the classroom hand-in-hand, and you kiss him quickly on the lips before he heads to his class. When you look across the hallway, you see Rachel turn away and busy herself with her notebooks in her locker.

"Green isn't a good look on you, Berry," you say as you pass by on your way to class.

You don't look back. You refuse to let Rachel take Finn away—you earned your status, and you can only keep it with a quarterback boyfriend. You furrow your eyebrows when you realize that those were the first words you've said to Rachel all school year.

* * *

"Wow, that was… impressive," Mr. Schuester says after you, Brittany, and Santana finish your rendition of "Say a Little Prayer."

"So, are we in?" you ask.

"Um… yeah. I'm a bit concerned you three might be busy to commit to New Directions given your Cheerios schedule…"

"As you know, I take extracurricular activities very seriously. Education shouldn't be limited to the classroom. I took it upon myself to make a formal proposal to Coach Sylvester to ensure adequate time to participate in both," you say, handing Mr. Schuester your two-page proposal.

"That's very… thorough, Quinn," Mr. Schuester says, looking somewhat flabbergasted. You refrain from rolling your eyes; you're a Fabray—you get things done. "Welcome to glee club!"

You smile and lead Santana and Brittany out of the classroom. You part so you can reapply some makeup in the bathroom. The door barely closes behind you before Rachel storms in, crossing her arms and glaring at you.

You look at her in the mirror and roll your eyes. "Yes?"

"What are you doing?"

You hold up your blush brush, "What's it look like?"

"I mean what are you doing joining glee? What happened to 'a pretty voice' not being enough for respect here?"

You chuckle, sweeping the brush across your cheekbones. "Finn joined, and like hell I'm going to let him be in your presence for that long without me."

"How trusting of you."

"I trust Finn, but I don't trust you," you say, scowling in the mirror at her.

"That's a mutual feeling."

"Look, I care about Finn enough to let him prance around like an idiot," you say, snapping your compact closed and facing Rachel. "I'm going to sway in the background until he gets bored, and then everything will go back to normal."

"Normal as in dragging him to chastity club? He _likes_ glee club, Quinn. He's not going to quit."

"This is what I mean, Rachel. You're in your own little world," you say, giving her an exaggerated look of pity. "I'm not going to date a Lima Loser," you put your purse back on your shoulder, "See you at glee."

You leave the bathroom without another word.

* * *

"Finn!" you shout, snapping your fingers in front of his face.

"What?" Finn asks, startled. He blinks repeatedly and attempts a casual response, as if he hadn't just been sleeping.

"If you keep staying up late with Call of Duty, I'm going to break that thing in half," you scold, making a couple boys snicker.

You ignore Puck's smirk in the back of the room. You don't have the power to throw him out, but you're plotting ways to kick him in the balls and make it seem like an accident. He doesn't want to seem like he cares, so he's trying to piss you off until you talk to him and give him a straight answer. Until then, his presence has been an obnoxious reminder of your not-so-pure escapades.

"I'm just tired… With… you know. Football and… _stuff_ ," he says, giving you a pleading look so you won't out that he's in glee club.

You roll your eyes. You do twice as much as he does and get better grades and still manage to _run_ chastity club.

"As I was saying, we'll get into pairs—" You stop midsentence when the door of the room swings open, and you see Rachel standing awkwardly in the doorway. "Are you _lost_?"

"Sorry I'm late," Rachel says, pursing her lips and sitting in the desk next to Finn, giving him a brief smile.

You open your mouth to argue with her spontaneous membership, but you settle with rolling your eyes when you remember that you can't choose who attends or not.

"Before I was interrupted by _Shrek_ , I was saying today's workshop will involve pairing up, preferably with someone you don't typically talk to, and talking about alternative activities that encourage abstinence."

People grumble in agreement before standing and choosing a partner with apathy. You make sure people have a partner, but you realize that Rachel's attendance made an odd number. You had planned on sitting out, but Puck wiggles his eyebrows at you as he saunters up.

You look to Finn, but he's occupied by Rachel. He's grinning like an idiot, scratching the back of his neck as Rachel says something to him.

"You know, this whole _virgin_ role play is kinda hot," Puck says in a low voice.

You push him away from you. "Not the point of this workshop, Puck," you say.

He leans closer to you. "I hope this is your way of finding better excuses to tell Finn what you were _really_ doing this summer," he says with a wink.

You see Rachel touch Finn's chest, laughing at something (probably stupid) that he said.

" _Man-hands_ , off Finn. Do I need to explain the rules?" You feel relieved when you get to walk away from Puck and pull out the bag of blue balloons. "Now everyone needs to keep enough room for the Holy Spirit."

The room groans, a few people shooting pointed looks at Rachel as you hand her a balloon.

"Blow it up and put it between you and your partner," you order her. She keeps eye contact, and you refrain from exploding, yelling at her until she explains what her deal is, but that would mean you actually cared what she thought. "If it pops, the noise makes angels cry."

You make Puck blow up the balloon, knowing he would make some sexual quip if you did it. You start to regret the Holy Spirit balloons when Puck starts to press it into you.

"Puck!" you say in a harsh whisper.

"Just wanna poke a few holes for a real _Holey_ Spirit," he jokes, thrusting his hips a bit.

You hear a pop, and you're surprised it's not the one between you and Puck. You find the source and glare at Finn's red face. You discovered this summer that Finn has a bit of an early arrival issue.

" _Finn_ ," you seethe.

"It hit my zipper," Finn says, his voice sounding mildly panicked.

"As my _boyfriend_ , I expect some semblance of respect regarding the values of chastity _and_ our relationship."

"It was an accident," Rachel says, giving you a look of disbelief.

"I didn't ask for your opinion, Bilbo."

Rachel scoffs, crossing her arms and glaring back defiantly. "This is a joke."

"Kind of like your outfit," you snap.

She doesn't even blink. "Did you know that most studies have demonstrated that celibacy doesn't work in high schools?" She turns and addresses the rest of the room, "Our hormones are driving us too crazy to abstain. The second we start telling ourselves that there's no room for compromise, we act out. The safest thing to do is learn how to be safe."

"The _safest_ way is by not having sex," you say pointedly.

"And the safest way to not break your legs is to not use them," Rachel challenges, "but that doesn't mean everyone willingly gives up walking."

"You can leave now," you say, pointing at the door.

Rachel looks at the class and Finn, "You want to know a dirty little secret that none of them want you to know? Girls want sex just as much as guys do."

" _Out_!" you shout.

Rachel smirks and shakes her head, leaving the room and her breathy laugh in her wake.

"Actually, everyone go!" you say, waving them off. "Pointless…"

Puck parts with one last wink, and Finn stands there awkwardly for a moment.

"Finn, I can't even look at you right now," you say with a huff.

His shoulders droop, but he gives you a short peck on the cheek before walking out.

* * *

You clench your jaw as you watch Finn and Rachel sing to one another, holding each other's hands as they perform their duet. Finn towers over her, and it just looks wrong. You chuckle as Santana makes a joke, but you don't look away from the performance.

At the end of the song, Rachel immediately drops Finn's hands and turns to Mr. Schuester with a bright smile.

"Great job, guys," Mr. Schuester says with a smile. "Definitely a contender for Sectionals."

" _Contender_?" Rachel repeats, "Mr. Schuester, duets and love songs are great ways to earn the panels' votes. I hardly think Artie's rapping will get us a win… Sorry, Artie."

Artie raises his hands, showing no offense taken. You're surprised Rachel actually apologized; since it became apparent from the very beginning that Rachel is the most talented of the group and the most ambitious, she has taken it upon herself to make herself captain and the primary critic of the group.

"It all depends on the group's decision, Rachel," Mr. Schuester says.

"I feel like I just watched an Ent sing to a Hobbit," Santana says, now focused on filing her nails.

"Santana…" he says in a warning tone.

"Do you three watch the _Lord of the Rings_ movies every week?" Rachel asks with a raised eyebrow as she looks to you, Brittany, and Santana.

"Not every week," Brittany answers excitedly, "Plus we had a _Lord of the Rings_ book club—"

"It's just an observation," Santana cuts in, putting her hand on Brittany's thigh to silence her.

"Let's move on to the next performance," Mr. Schuester says before an argument can erupt. "Puck?" he says, looking at his rough agenda on his clipboard.

Since Finn and Rachel are the star duo, you watch them take their seats beside one another in the front row as Puck trots down the riser steps, picking up his acoustic guitar.

"I know some of us," he says, looking at you as he plucks at a few guitar strings, "are fans of The Beatles. So I thought this would be a good song."

You try to appear unfazed, but you see Finn and Rachel look back and forth from you and Puck in your periphery.

He strums the chords, and your expression falters when he begins singing, " _Something in the way she moves… attracts me like no other lover. Something in the way she woos me… I don't want to leave her now, you know I believe and how…_ "

You start to panic as Puck continues to sing to you. You chance a look at Finn, and he looks mildly confused and frustrated. When Puck climbs the riser to stand one step down from your seat, you don't bother looking; everyone knows Puck is singing to you.

" _You're asking me will my love grow… I don't know, I don't know…_ "

Once Puck finishes the song, there's a brief pause before the rest of the club claps awkwardly. Puck just smiles at you, giving you a wink before descending the risers to stand in front of the room again and receive Mr. Schuester's feedback.

"That was a great rendition," he says to Puck, looking a bit perplexed by the rest of the group's reaction.

"Thanks, Mr. Schue. I—"

Finn stands up and faces Mr. Schuester, red in the face. "That was crap."

"Woah, Finn—"

Finn turns to Puck and closes the space between them in two strides.

"What the _hell_ was that, Puck?"

"A song, dude," Puck says, pulling off his guitar and putting it back on the stand.

"You were singing to _my_ girlfriend," Finn says, pushing Puck's shoulder. "Is this why you've been a dick all season?"

You can tell Puck is about to push back, so you stand abruptly and demand they stop. You shoot Mr. Schuester a look of disbelief since he looks baffled as to how to handle the situation—you honestly have no idea how he even has a job.

"You can sing love songs with the midget," you say pointedly, "so obviously, it doesn't mean anything. It's _just a song_ , Finn. Right Puck?"

Puck pulls his glare from Finn and gives you a nod.

"Just… back off, bro," Finn mutters, before taking his seat.

* * *

Coach Sylvester is attending a cheerleading conference, so you're leading a track practice for the Cheerios. You're stretching after your mile warm-up, preparing for the repeat miles Coach has lined up for the team. You watch as the football team gets water after their own warm-ups, and you know you have to talk to Puck sooner rather than later to tell him that it's never going to happen—it _cannot_ happen.

You start outlining the practice and hand Becky the clipboard and stopwatch. You tell the girls to listen as you go over the expected times for each mile, but their attention is quickly diverted to the field where shouts erupt from the football team.

Given Finn's height and Puck's mohawk, you know it's Finn tackling Puck to the ground. Without much thought, you start running toward them.

"Get off me, asshole!" Puck yells as Finn lifts him by his shoulders and shoves him forcefully back into the ground. Puck isn't fighting back, just blocking his face from any potential blows from Finn.

"Screw you!" Finn shouts. You've never seen him so angry, so you hesitate as you stand to the side.

"HEY!" calls Coach Bieste, making her way out to the field.

Finn slowly gets up, and someone pulls Puck up. Finn realizes you're there, and he looks hurt and angry, his chest heaving from the adrenaline.

"What the hell is going on here?" Coach Bieste says, now out of breath as well, "Hudson, as captain I expect more from you."

Finn doesn't even acknowledge Coach Bieste. "Is it true?" he asks you.

You know what he's asking, and in the time it takes before you nod, Finn is already gritting his teeth, shaking his head.

"Hudson, what's going on here?"

"I can't be here today, Coach," Finn mutters, walking off and punting his helmet twenty yards down the field with an incoherent yell, then kicking over the Cheerio's water cooler, much to the other cheerleaders' dismay.

"You owe me two miles tomorrow, Hudson!" she calls after him. Bieste looks at you, "Fabray, get back to your practice. I don't know how you're involved, but I don't want to have to talk to Coach Sylvester any more than I have to."

You nod, and when you glance at Puck, you can tell he feels uneasy. When you make your way back to the Cheerios, no one asks what happened. The only questioning is Santana's quirk of an eyebrow. You shake your head in response, fixing your pony and busying yourself with your watch.

"Let's go, girls," you order.

You lead the group, running faster than necessary for your first lap, but you crave aching lungs to match your sore chest. As you pass the stands, you see Rachel sitting on the bleachers, a book in her lap. She watches you briefly, but then focuses her attention on her book.

You pick up your pace even more, and soon you can't hear the other Cheerio's footfalls behind you—only the blood pounding in your ears.

* * *

You know you look terrible when Frannie cringes right after her face pops up on your computer screen.

"I know," you mutter knowingly.

"You want to talk about it?" she asks, an uncertain expression on her face.

You shrug, "Not really."

"You want to just tell me what happened? Like, bullet notes version? You look like crap, Luce."

You let out a dry laugh, "Thanks."

Frannie sits there patiently, looking sympathetic.

"I slept with Puck," you confess quietly.

"Mohawk kid?"

You nod.

Frannie bites her lip for a second as she mulls over this information. "He's pretty good-looking."

Laughter bubbles out, and you're suddenly crying for the first time since Finn broke up with you and the whole school has found out that you have not been chaste. Amazingly, the school still kowtows at your every move, but it's hard to handle the leers now directed at you.

Frannie tells you about her first time, how awkward and unsure it all was. She explains that she didn't regret it as much as she was disappointed by it—that it wasn't as momentous of an event as she had wanted. You kind of always suspected that she had sex in high school, but it was a bit of a Don't Ask, Don't Tell topic given the fact that she was still living under the same roof as you and your parents.

"It's life, Lucy Q," she says gently, giving you a small smile. "Sex can be casual… fun… whatever. Sometimes there's meaning and emotions, sometimes there's not. You'll figure it out. Just be safe, yeah?"

You nod, wiping the remaining tears from your face.

"So, tell me more about this glee club," Frannie says. You appreciate that she always knows when to change the topic, when you need distraction.

You roll your eyes before going on a rant about Mr. Schuester, Finn and Rachel's obnoxious duets, and your opinion that Rachel should open with a solo, "even if she is an obnoxious Keebler Elf—she's the most talented person at McKinley."

* * *

You kiss him, pushing your heavy thoughts from your mind.

"This doesn't mean we're getting together," you say straddling his hips and pushing him down onto his back. Something about Puck being shirtless in your bed while your parents are out of the house makes you feel powerful, like you're taking control of things again—Quinn Fabray 2.0: No longer a virgin, but still as daring and feared.

"It's whatever you say it is," Puck agrees.

You pull your top off before his rough hands find your breasts, and you kiss him again.

* * *

"Big practice?" Mercedes asks from beside you in the lunch line, noting your double portion of pasta.

"Something like that," you say with a forced smile.

Mercedes looks like she wants to ask more, but your conniving grin keeps her mouth shut.

You drop your four dollars in front of the cashier for the crappy food on your tray. You proceed to walk over to the football team's table, where Puck and Finn are still sitting on opposite ends.

"Sup, babe?" Puck says, smirking at you.

You pick up the giant plate of pasta and flip it over, dumping it onto Puck's head and his lap.

The entire cafeteria goes silent for half a second before it starts to buzz with quiet voices and laughter.

"The fuck, Quinn?!"

"You _know_ what, Puck," you say, dropping the plate and tray into his lap before storming off.

You make your way to the locker room to change, deciding to go for a run during lunch instead of sitting in the cafeteria with half of the school.

You feel satisfied with the dramatics of your actions. All morning you planned a way to show the school that you don't get walked on, even if it's by a good-looking football player.

In homeroom, Santana had asked when you slept with Puck, and when you said the summer, she looked relieved. She confessed she's been sleeping with Puck semi-regularly since the school year started, but she looked nervous when your face got red with rage.

Your phone vibrates in your pocket—a text from Puck.

 _I thought it didn't matter._

You quickly type back. _If you're going to be a slut you shouldn't sleep with my closest friend._

You wait for his response, clutching your phone tightly.

 _If she's your closest friend you got bigger issues than me sleeping with her. And you didn't seem to mind my sluttiness the other night._

You throw your phone into your duffle bag before changing into your gym clothes.

As soon as you step outside, you're grateful that the air is crisp and that the fall is officially rolling in. The cool air makes you feel awake, snaps you back to the present—just autumn foliage standing in contrast to the gray sky and the feeling of the track under your feet.

* * *

You don't get mad at Santana, but she still acts wary around you. You aren't really upset with anyone but yourself—it really didn't mean much, but maybe you wanted someone for the colder months and Puck was your only option.

"He's all yours," you say with a shrug, leaning against the island counter at Brittany's house. Brittany wanted to solidify the truce and host one of your typical sleepovers.

"Is that a real forfeit or are you going to kill me in my sleep tonight?" Santana says, picking up a cookie from the tray. Brittany actually managed to make decent cookies this time around, but even when she didn't, Santana would eat two just to make Brittany happy.

You roll your eyes before nibbling at your own cookie. "I really don't care. If you want to be with him, go ahead."

Santana snorts, "Sex doesn't mean dating."

"Whatever; either way, I don't care what you do."

"I can't decide if I like Miss Chastity Club or this version of you better," Santana says with a bit of cookie in her mouth. "You're still a bitch, but just a different flavor."

You throw the rest of your cookie at her, and it lands in her cleavage. The three of you laugh, and Santana just plucks the cookie from between her breasts and eats it.

* * *

You don't open your eyes when you stir from your sleep. You briefly wonder where you are before you remember you're sleeping on one of Brittany's couches while she and Santana agreed to share the air mattress.

You hear quiet voices, and you open your eyes to see if the TV was left on. The screen is black, but you can make out Santana and Brittany's silhouettes from the streetlight outside the window. They're lying facing each other, and you watch Santana's hand brush some of Brittany's hair from her face. It's intimate, and it makes you close your eyes because you feel as if you're intruding—seeing something they intend to keep unknown.

"You're always one of my favorites, B," you hear Santana murmur with a small chuckle.

And then you hear it—the definitive sound of kissing—lips gently meeting, tongues grazing, breathlessness. You realize you're holding your breath, ears aching as you listen to their kisses and the occasional giggle from Brittany and soft hushing from Santana. You know this version of Quinn Fabray should jump at the chance to spread this scandalous information, but you feel more like Lucy—hoping for the clichés and sweeter things. You decide this is less of a scandal than a tender moment, and you fall asleep with a faint feeling of melancholy and yearning.


	6. Chapter 6

**At the Crossroads**

* * *

 **10.**

Your entire body is aching, and you wince a little as you walk to the showers after morning practice. You're fairly confident you're getting tendonitis in your knees, but you refuse to even mention this to Coach or see the nurse—you know the nurse would say something to Coach Sylvester and get herself fired and you a series of Cheerios punishments and possible demotion.

When you cross into the shower room, you hear a familiar tune being hummed. You see Santana's flip-flop clad feet under the stall doors, tapping to the beat. The next stall, you see Brittany's pink flip-flops and hear her humming as well, but definitively dancing in the shower.

"Better not let Coach hear you," you say in a voice to be heard just over the flow of water.

"I don't know what you're talking about, Fabray," Santana calls back as you step into an empty stall and hang up your towel.

You roll your eyes and choose not to argue with her—it'd be pointless. To be honest, you've had songs from glee stuck in your head since you've joined, and you're fairly confident you, Santana, and Brittany don't enjoy yourselves nearly as much anywhere outside of the choir room.

* * *

You make a point to scoff as you pass by Rachel and Finn in the hallway. You can't hear what they're saying, but you scowl at Finn leaning on a neighboring locker with a forced look of nonchalance. You're not sure if you're more disgusted by the effort Finn is putting in, or the effortless smile Rachel gives in return.

* * *

"These costumes are supposed to be ironic, right?" Kurt says, opening the door for you, Brittany, and Santana. He has his hand delicately wrapped around a wine glass, in a Victorian style suit and mask. You liked the image of the angel costumes—not outright sexy, but a perfect balance of seductive and innocent. "Let me guess… _Sylvester's Angels_? No. Or are you… _The Unholy Trinity_?"

You're impressed that Santana merely glares, but it turns into a slightly menacing smile. "I think I kind of like that," she says before brushing by him to join the party.

"Phantom, huh?" you say, entering the doorway.

"Why Quinn Fabray, I am pleasantly surprised," Kurt says, bowing.

You roll your eyes, but it's not malicious—you find him to be an amusing diva in glee club, so you proceed to curtsy in your white dress.

"We're angels," Brittany chimes in. "I don't know any character Pleasantly Surprised…"

Kurt looks at you and you just subtly shake your head, grinning as you watch Brittany disappear into the crowd, only her blonde hair and halo seen over others' heads.

You look at the strange mix of people—some glee club outcasts, some Cheerios in their barely-there costumes, and some football players cleverly dressed as… football players. You're fairly impressed with Puck for bringing together people who mutually hate one another. The groups are clearly segregated, but you don't see any slushie cups.

"Where did you even get a wine glass?" you ask as you walk over to one of the coolers.

"I don't drink wine out of Solo cups," Kurt says with a humorous air of exaggerated elitism.

You pull a cold Smirnoff Ice from the cooler, and you're about to ask who else from glee is at the party when brown hair and pale blue cross your path.

"There's my Angel of Music!"

Rachel is dressed as Christine, and she briefly looks at you, but directs her attention back to Kurt. She's holding a near-empty wine cooler, and her rosy cheeks and smile reveal her semi-intoxicated state.

"I begrudgingly agreed," Kurt mumbles in response to your amused expression.

You doubt this, but busy yourself with trying to twist off the cap of your bottle.

"I got this."

Puck takes the bottle from you and easily twists it open. You give him a bit of a look, but he just winks at you. Then you look at his costume and can't help but laugh.

"Like it?" he asks.

"It suits you."

"I call it, 'Quinn Fabray's Latest Victim,'" he says, motioning to his t-shirt and pants with the stains still on them, but highlighted with some extra red paint, and dry pasta glued on. "I'm sorry," he says in a low voice. "It was a dick move."

"Well, you're still a dick," you say, taking the bottle back and sipping from it, "but you're forgiven."

"I'd hug you, but this paint won't really dry so…"

You laugh as he just pats you on the shoulder. Between Finn not talking to you and your purposeful avoidance of Puck, you've grown tired of the tension. With the booze and costumes and laughter around you, you feel slightly less fraudulent dressed as an angel.

* * *

You watch Santana and Puck across the room—they're laughing and talking closely. They kiss occasionally. They seem to suit each other—at least in the context of Cheerios and Titans football players. You finish your wine cooler and decide to get another.

The party has moved mostly to the living room and basement, so you're surprised when you find Finn in there, getting off the phone with his mother. You can hear singing and cheers coming from the basement, and you're sure that Kurt brought the karaoke machine. Finn greets you awkwardly, but you return it with a smile. You retrieve a wine cooler, but turn to Finn as he makes his way to the basement door.

"I'm sorry, Finn," you say abruptly. "I mean… I'm sorry I lied. That I hurt you."

He shrugs awkwardly in his flamboyant suit that you can't bring yourself to attempt mocking. "It sucks, but it doesn't hurt so much. I guess I kind of suspected."

You shake your head, "It was unfair."

"Look, someone told me recently that… anger is understandable but it doesn't help the hurt, but forgiveness… _crap_ … it uh… does something better?" Finn says, scratching his head as he tries to recall the advice.

You chuckle, "Are you forgiving me?"

He grins, "Yeah. I want everything to be… somewhat okay. You're on the Cheerios. I'm on football. We're both in glee. We're in Lima together… We're going to see each other a lot for the next few years," he explains, "and I don't really expect us to be friends, but… civil, you know?"

You nod, offering your hand. He takes it and shakes it gently, giving you his classic, doofy half-grin.

"So, what's your costume, exactly?" you ask, quirking an eyebrow.

He sighs and blushes slightly, "It… Kurt kind of… I didn't have a costume, and I got lassoed into being—"

" _Raoul!_ " Rachel appears, having run up the steps. "Be my duet partner!"

Finn looks extremely embarrassed, "Rach… I don't think—"

"Tell them it was a dare," Rachel says, rolling her eyes. You almost doubt that Rachel even looked at you because her expression doesn't change and she carries on her conversation with Finn as if you're not standing there. She takes his hand, "Come on!"

"Fine," Finn mumbles.

She practically drags him from the kitchen, and Finn just gives you a shrug before disappearing down to the basement.

You look at the wine cooler in your hand before you put it back into the refrigerator. You peer into some plastic bags lining the counter and smile when you find an abandoned pint of Smirnoff vodka.

* * *

You can only hear yourself laughing, your head pressed against the hard floor and your body shaking. You're fairly confident you're in the living room because you remember dancing on the couch, and now you're on the old rug covering their hardwood floor.

 _"What the_ fuck _happened?"_ You can gather this is Puck. _"Quinn,"_ Puck is closer, and you blink a few times before opening your eyes, your vision blurry from tears of laughter.

 _"Shit,"_ Puck says, pulling you up. _"What the hell were you doing?"_

You laugh because it sounds like you're underwater.

" _Dancing_ ," you say, but the word comes out slowly and sloppily.

You're standing, but Puck won't stop swaying.

"Stop moving so much," you tell him as he pulls you closer and you close your eyes.

" _What the shit, Q_?"

" _Where were you?_ "

" _Britts and I were downstairs making fun of the nerds_."

You nuzzle into Puck's chest, feeling it vibrate as he speaks.

" _Tell me you're sober enough to drive her home_."

" _Like I wanted to total my new ride!"_

"Was it good, San?" you ask, turning to her with a grin, opening your eyes and squinting in the suddenly bright living room light.

You see her face turn red, and you start laughing again. Your own laughter seems to pop your ears, and you're suddenly hyper aware of others in the room and the voices mumbling.

"What did you say?" she asks incredulously.

"Rachel…" you say, pressing your face back into Puck, "and her duet with frilly Finn. Duh."

"Fuck, Q," Santana says, grabbing you by one arm as Brittany takes another.

"Oh, are we hugging?" you say, wrapping your arms around them and forcing them into a tight embrace. You can smell the same perfume on the both of them, and you let out another brief laugh, "Ohhhhhhh…" You move your head so you can whisper in Santana's ear, "I really did wanna know if the duet was good… Rachel and Finn… not _yours_." You pull away and give her—what you think is—a wink.

You don't know you're moving until you're in the bright light of the kitchen. There are a few people from glee by the basement door, having heard the commotion.

"Rachel!" you say, seeing her standing beside Finn.

"Is she okay?" she asks Santana, then looking back at you with concern etched into her features. She's so dramatic.

"Yeah, Berry. She's fucking stellar."

"Pff, I'm great. You'd be a great Christine," you tell her in a tone that you hope conveys your seriousness.

"Jesus, Q. You're tanked," Santana mutters, practically dragging you out the front door toward her car.

You get a chill as you fall into the backseat, the cool leather feeling pleasant on your warm face.

"We'll take care of you, Quinn," says Brittany's voice.

Your eyes are closed, and you don't feel like opening them. "I don't need you to take care of me," you mumble, mostly into the seat.

"Mhm, right," Santana says.

"Y'know… I'm happy I'm in glee," you confess, and you snort, "We'll get to say we were in glee with _Rachel Berry_ someday."

Santana scoffs, "I hate that you're probably right."

"I don't," you say, sighing heavily, "She deserves it."

"Is this what Jekyl and Hyde is like? I was supposed to have read it, but I forgot to," Brittany notes.

"Sort of," Santana responds.

* * *

You come to, and your chest is heaving and your vision is blurry. You're sobbing, and there's blonde hair in your face and arms wrapped around you. You can feel the familiar cushions of Santana's couch beneath you, but you hardly register much more than that and the attempts at words leaving your mouth.

"Shhh, Quinn, it's okay," Brittany says softly in your ear.

"I have no idea what she's saying," Santana whispers.

"Shh, S. Just hug her like friends are supposed to."

You feel another set of arms wrap around you as you continue to cry. You're not sure why this is happening, what led to this, but you don't move and just let your body rely on them to hold you up and make you feel like you're made of more than shaking bones.

* * *

You don't know what time it is, but you assume it's early, given the pale sky outside the bathroom window. You heave and empty more of the vodka and wine cooler from your stomach. You groan, and it seems to echo in the toilet, making your head ache more.

When you realized you were going to be there for a while after you first threw up, you spotted the Clorox wipes beside the sink and wiped down the toilet, then gracefully plopped down in front of it. You have been throwing up for what you assume has been the last fifteen minutes.

"No pictures, please," you mumble after you hear the bathroom door open and click shut.

"While that's a fabulous idea," Santana states, "I'm actually a decent friend sometimes."

You feel her gently nudge you, and you lift your head out of the toilet to see her holding a glass of water and two pills.

"Put it on the counter," you manage, "Won't help if I throw them up."

"From the sound of it, you're nearing the end."

"How d'you know?"

She places the glass and Advil on the counter before taking a seat on the edge of her tub. "Britt didn't know what made Twisted Teas _twisted_ when we were twelve, so I spent the night holding her hair back."

You nod, but regret it when it makes your head spin and your stomach ache. You dip your head back down and throw up wine-cooler pink stomach acid.

"Yeah, I think my stomach is on empty," you mutter, blindly grabbing at the toilet paper and wiping your mouth. "Did I puke in your car?" you ask, cringing as you realize you don't remember most of the ride or any part of getting stripped down to your underwear and dressed in an oversized t-shirt.

"Bitch, you'd be dead if you puked in my car," Santana says with a snort.

"Good," you mutter, closing your eyes as you lay your cheek against the porcelain.

"You wanna talk about what happened?" Santana says gently.

You only groan in response.

"Why'd you get so shitfaced, Q? I didn't even know you were capable of getting that drunk."

You shrug.

There's a gap of silence, and you hear your stomach push around the emptiness in confusion, and you wince, wishing it would stop.

"Take this and wait here for another minute to see if your stomach takes it," Santana says, standing and retrieving the Advil.

You force it down and drink half of the glass of water. Santana returns to her seat on the tub, and you turn yourself away from the toilet and lean your back against the wall. You look at her with half-lidded eyes, hoping you can fall back to sleep for another few hours if you can manage to move out of the bathroom.

"How do you do it?" you ask, finally hearing how tired and raspy your voice is not that it's not resonating in the toilet.

"Do what?"

"You and Britt… even though you… y'know, with Puck?" You're sure you're still a bit drunk because sober you wouldn't bring this up—this conversation was planned for some night months from now after the two of you both had several beers and could mutually agree on forgetting it ever happened.

Santana's face flushes. You grin because she looks younger for a moment, and you remember the photos of her in her dad's office with her in overalls and pigtails.

"Oh, come on, San. You two aren't very subtle."

"Look, if you tell me I'm a sinner—"

"I've had premarital sex. I'm not going to judge."

"That's a lie because you're a judgmental bitch, but I'll pretend I don't know that," she says with a sigh. She pulls at the sleeve of her shirt thoughtlessly before continuing, "It's… fun," she pauses as if considering the facts, "Puck is a good lay. You know that. A predictable, reliable lay."

"Okay, let's stop talking about how we basically shared the same guy."

Santana laughs quietly, but her expression becomes somewhat serious. "With Britt… I don't know? She's hot. It's different with girls."

"It doesn't feel like cheating?"

"I'm not dating them."

"But if Puck wants to? If you want to?"

"Yeah, but," another pause, and you watch her chew the inside of her bottom lip briefly, "it doesn't count with Britt. We both know that. Plus she's got a weird crush on Artie or something."

"That is weird," you say, furrowing your eyebrows as you try and put that one together.

"Yeah, I mean, it's about _feelings_ with them," she says, waving it off as if swatting at a fly.

"And if she dates him?"

"Still won't matter. It's just friends with benefits."

You nod. It makes sense, you guess. You wonder if anyone is getting the short end—who wants more but because of the luck of the draw, they just end up with a satiated libido and aching heart. You push the thought from your mind because, if you've learned anything in growing into Quinn's tough skin, you've learned what it means to prioritize without your heart in mind.


	7. Chapter 7

**At the Crossroads**

* * *

 **11.**

You managed to scare everyone into silence by getting Puck to hang Jacob Ben Israel by his underwear to his open locker. Everyone knows Quinn Fabray got very drunk at Puck's Halloween party, but no one has really figured out why. You're content with this because you're busy trying to ignore the actual reasons you drank yourself into a stupor that had you hugging Santana, Brittany, and Santana's toilet at the end of the night.

You're back on track, but Cheerios practice is taking a toll on you. You take a seat on the locker room bench, having taken your time to shower so the other girls would be done before you. You're in your underwear, wincing as you poke at your red knees. You take a deep breath and bend both knees up. They practically creek, and if they didn't ache so much, you would laugh at how pathetic you must look.

You sigh and consider Coach Sylvester's earlier ultimatum. You pull the towel from your hair and run your fingers through your damp locks, huffing a bit as you recall Coach telling you, Brittany, and Santana that your time with glee is up— _"We have a trophy to take home, and they can't go to Sectionals without you. Time to leave them high and dry, ladies."_

Santana and Brittany went to tell Mr. Schuester during homeroom, and you would follow up during lunch. You knew there would come a time when you would have to choose, but you ignored the possibility that you would want both worlds.

You realize you're staring into space when the locker room door bursts open and in storms an all-too energetic and frustrated looking Rachel Berry.

"Berry, do you know what the hell privacy is?!" you shout, covering yourself with your towel.

"Do you know what _loyalty_ is?!" she yells back. You see her eyes scan your body for a half a second before she looks up at the ceiling, "I had to address this betrayal immediately."

"Could you have done it when I had _clothes on_ , you perv?"

"No, because this is all part of my _gay agenda_ , Quinn," she says sardonically, still looking at the ceiling. "If you could get over yourself for one second, I'd like to address the fact that I _knew_ you would do this, and it was so _freaking stupid_ of me to think that we could depend on you."

You stand up, breathing evenly to prevent yourself from wincing. You slip into your Cheerios skirt and top as Rachel rattles off famous feuds in musicals.

"—and that still doesn't even amount to what you've done."

"I'm dressed," you say, "and I don't know what you want me to say. _Sorry_?"

Rachel looks at you and puts her hands on her hips. "That would be a nice start."

"Fine. I'm sorry I'm choosing a winning team over glee," you say, deadpanning.

"You are infuriating, Quinn Fabray."

You smirk, but you give yourself away when you sit down to put on your shoes.

"Are you okay?" Rachel asks, her tone entirely different.

"I'm fine," you say, sitting still for a moment.

"You should go to the nurse," Rachel says, taking a couple careful steps toward you.

You laugh dryly, "It's fine."

"Obviously not. The amount of running Coach Sylvester has you all doing on top of your regular practices is not good for your joints. It can put a lot of strain—"

"Listen, Dr. Oz," you say, "I don't need your life advice."

Rachel seems to wilt slightly before falling into place beside you on the bench.

"Please," she says, "be a part of this." She looks at you, and you wonder how long you've gone avoiding her eyes. "I need… _we_ need you to be at Sectionals. We could scramble for place-holders, but you three are our only hope at placing for Regionals."

You take some leggings out from your bag before pulling them on. "I can't just pass up my job as captain and deny the Cheerios another win to _maybe_ take home some stupid show choir trophy."

"I know you know it's more than that."

"It's a _dream_ , Rachel," you say, "It's exactly what it is."

She stands abruptly and clears her throat. "Fine. Run yourself into the ground on behalf of Coach Sylvester," she says in an apathetic tone, "but if you care about yourself, you'd ice your knees and stretch your calves and tone your quads more to prevent more strain on your knees. But you know everything, so you probably don't need to hear that. And if you care about yourself and others enough, you'd come back to glee."

You don't watch her leave—only listen to the door closing behind her. You're unsure when closed doors became associated with Rachel, but you're sure that you're the one who put the walls up in the first place.

* * *

"Make your choice, ladies."

You don't hide your glare because you can hardly believe that this McKinley feud has reached this point. Coach Sylvester is standing in front of you with her arms crossed, looking as domineering as ever, seemingly ducking under the roof of the bus. You shouldn't have even got on the bus as soon as Coach Sylvester announced moments before that the surprise finale of their act would involve shooting Brittany out of a cannon. Instead, it took you two blocks of a bus ride from the school before you jumped to your feet and told the driver to stop.

"I don't want to be a part of the _worst_ cheerleading performance ever," Santana chimes in from behind you.

"I really…" Brittany starts, but pauses under Coach's glare, "I _sort of_ think I might get hurt," she continues in a quiet voice, "if I get shot out of a cannon."

"She'll _die_ if you put her in a cannon," you say clearly in as strong a voice as you can muster.

"It's approved of in thirteen third-world countries!"

"I'm pretty sure that a lack of weapons regulations in several countries hardly counts as 'approval,'" you say, crossing your own arms and standing tall.

"You three are Cheerios, not singing, dancing, mini-Will Schuesters," she says in a menacing tone. "It's either the Ohio Cheerleading Invitational, or your little glee club's Sectionals competition."

"Do you _hear_ yourself?" Santana spits back, hugging a frightened looking Brittany. "You're willing to possibly blow apart a cheerleader—a _human being_ —for another trophy that _doesn't even affect_ our qualification for Nationals!"

"Shut it, Richie Ricardo!" Coach fires back.

" _Racist_ ," Santana mutters.

Coach Sylvester steps to the side between two seats and motions for you three to pass. You look at her warily before walking by. As the bus driver opens the doors, Coach Sylvester calls after you, "I expect your uniforms on my desk tomorrow morning."

You don't look back at her, and instead you decide to lift your chin and lead the brisk jog back to the school grounds.

* * *

You tell Brittany not to cry repeatedly as she blames herself in Santana's car.

"We weren't going to let you die for Cheerios," you say, clutching the handle and triple-checking that the door is locked as the engine switches gears and Santana passes several cars on the highway.

"Start getting changed," Santana says from the driver's seat, beeping at a car straggling along in the left lane.

"Why did you have our dresses in here?" you ask, reaching toward the back and pulling them from the trunk.

"I may have been hoping to grace locals with my talents at singing and dancing… and my great ass," Santana says.

You let out a small laugh, "I'm glad you're such an attention whore."

"Shut up, Fabray."

You only smile and hand Brittany her dress before awkwardly maneuvering yourself to get out of your Cheerios uniform and into your sequined dress.

* * *

You actually laugh when the group pulls you, Santana, and Brittany into a hug. Santana mutters something about them being "slobbery puppies that better not pee on her leg." Even though you see her standing off to the side, she gives you a small smile, and you let yourself smile back.

* * *

Rachel has the big opening solo, of course, and you stand in the wings of the stage when the curtains close in front of the show choir ahead of New Directions. You see Finn and Rachel standing on the other side, and they're talking as Finn takes her by the shoulders, saying something that makes Rachel smile up at him.

The announcer encourages a small applause from the audience for the previous glee club, and right before announcing the New Directions, you watch Finn lean down and kiss Rachel's cheek. She smiles up at him before looking to the stage and stepping out into the spotlight—the very place Rachel belongs.

* * *

You didn't forget how incredible Rachel is on stage, but her solo—her voice and passion in the bright light—reminded you how talented she really is, what she truly deserves in this lifetime.

The solo turns into a duet, and Finn steps out. They meet in the middle, holding hands.

"Don't tell me you want him back," Santana whispers from behind you.

You scoff, turning to face Santana and get ready behind the curtain. "I'm just making sure they don't screw up."

She rolls her eyes. "Berry wouldn't let that happen."

* * *

You see Finn give Rachel a hug before heading to the boys' dressing room. You wait a moment before following her in. The door sounds too loud when it closes behind you and you realize that it's just the two of you in there. (The other girls went to the bathroom to wash their faces of the heavy makeup.)

You don't say anything as you walk to your corner, facing the mirror so your back is to Rachel. You hear her unzip her dress, standing in her own area of the room. When you catch her movement in your mirror, you pause for a moment, watching her slip free from the garish dress so she's left in a strapless bra and underwear. You notice the dimples of her lower back, her shoulder blades, and when you catch yourself admiring her ass and the exposed skin peeking out from the bottom of her panties, you focus your attention back to your outfit.

You step into your skirt and reach for your shirt, but you notice Rachel in the mirror, looking at your back and opening her mouth as if to say something. Instead, she turns back around and begins to gather her things.

"You were really great out there," you say.

Rachel turns to you, her expression showing her surprise.

"Thanks," she says, chancing a modest grin.

You find yourself briefly enchanted by the small curve of her lips, and she scans your face, as if trying to determine any ulterior motive. Her hair is tousled from dancing and her cheeks are still a shade of light pink, and you're glad your gulp is inaudible when you admit to yourself that she looks… _sexy_. Rachel Berry. _Sexy_. Standing there in an oversized sweater and jeans.

"I mean, it's the least you can do since now I have to depend on glee to take home a Nationals' trophy."

"What do you mean?"

"Sylvester kicked us off the team," you say. "We mostly just came because we didn't want Brittany to die… It's a long story. Just… let's win it all, okay?"

Rachel is about to say something when Tina and Mercedes enter, laughing loudly. You pretend not to notice the smile she gives you, and instead you bite back your own as you pack your things.

"I mean, it's the least you can do since now I have to depend on glee to take home a Nationals' trophy."

"What do you mean?"

"Sylvester kicked us off the team," you say. "We mostly just came because we didn't want Brittany to die… It's a long story. Just… let's win it all, okay?"

Rachel is about to say something when Tina and Mercedes enter, laughing loudly. You pretend not to notice the smile she gives you, and instead you bite back your own as you pack your things.


	8. Chapter 8

**At the Crossroads**

* * *

 **12.**

When you walked into Coach Sylvester's office the next day, she told you to keep it. You wondered if she discovered she actually had human emotion, but it turns out "someone felt it necessary to remind me of the Cheerleading Handbook Rules and Regulations, and _technically_ , I can't kick you off the team for participation in other extracurricular activities." Santana and Brittany were immediately let back onto the team, with a fair share of running as punishment. You, as captain, were granted a temporary suspension as an example for the other girls.

So when you walk down the halls on your way to your first class of the day, people openly gawk at you in your jeans and floral blouse. Heads turn and whispers are exchanged, but you keep your chin up. You still dominate the hierarchy, with or without your uniform on.

When you pass by Rachel's locker, she doesn't look at you; she's looking up at Finn and laughing. You continue as if you noticed nothing.

* * *

On your way to the cafeteria, you see Karofsky and some of the other jocks laughing by their lockers. One of them hands Karofsky a slushie cup, and when he looks down the hallway, you know his target.

He starts to walk down the hall, but you stalk him down.

"Hey, Keebler Elf—"

He barely lifts the cup when you slap it from his hand so it splatters across the floor.

"The _hell_ Fabray?" he exclaims.

The hallway goes silent, and you're standing there fuming.

"You catch the gay dancing around with all those pansies?" Karofsky throws at you.

You force a laugh and smirk at him. He looks momentarily puzzled, but you wipe any expression from his face when you shove him into the nearby lockers.

"Listen here, closet-case," you say in a harsh whisper, "She's off limits. Glee club is _off limits_."

"What are you going to do about it? Wave some pom-poms in my face? Oh wait, you don't even have those, do you?"

"Just because I'm not in uniform doesn't mean I'm not at the top of the pyramid. So watch it, Neanderthal," you say, backing away from him. "And once I'm back in uniform, you'll be surprised how much sway Cheerleaders can have around here—even with football players."

You continue on your way to the cafeteria as if the confrontation never occurred, ignoring the jocks commenting that Karofsky "got pushed around by a chick." You pass by Rachel, casting her a quick glance, but Puck enters your view.

"I like your style, Q," he says, putting his arm around you.

You roll your eyes and remove his arm from your shoulder. "Captains' practices coming up?"

Puck nods, looking eager to hear your plans.

"Play nice for a bit. Then make him a tackling dummy," you say.

Puck gives you a fist bump, and you can't help but laugh as you part ways and he makes his way to the football table.

* * *

After school, you get change in the locker room to workout in the weight room. You're tying your shoes when you hear the door open, and a pair of oxfords appear in front of you.

You look up and smirk, "I'm starting to think I have a stalker."

"You'd love that, wouldn't you?" Rachel fires back, crossing her arms and cocking an eyebrow.

You snort and laugh it off, tossing your bag into your locker and locking it.

"Snark aside," Rachel says, "I wanted to thank you."

"For earlier?" you say with a sigh, putting your leg up on the bench and stretching your hamstring. "Meatheads don't call the shots around here. I do."

"Well, there's that," she says, and you almost smile when you notice her eyes travel up your legs, "but I also meant Sectionals."

You switch legs and look at her inquisitively, "You weren't the one who blackmailed Coach, were you?"

"Quinn, I am offended that you could make such an accusation…"

You give her a skeptical look when her face blushes.

"I may or may not be familiar with extracurricular handbooks, and may have highlighted and annotated them and left them in her office for her casual perusal…"

You laugh, and you feel lightheaded when you straighten up and see Rachel smile.

"But really," Rachel says, clearing her throat and nervously tucking her hair behind her ear, "I'm… I'm really glad you were there."

"Me too," you agree quietly.

"Alright," Rachel says with a sigh, "I'll see you in glee tomorrow."

"Yeah," you say, and you resist shaking your head because since when are you so awkward.

With one last hint of a grin, Rachel turns and leaves.

* * *

It's almost unbearable. For the past week of glee rehearsals, Rachel has requested they all take place in the auditorium to "mimic the setting for Regionals and explore our most beneficial methods of improving our stage presence." Rachel, of course, has twelve duet ideas for Regionals, which is months from now. She insisted on performing three of them today, but only one with Finn since he hasn't learned the other two. Finn moves awkwardly, mostly acting as a singing prop as Rachel dances around him. Still, they touch and hold hands, milking the romantic appeal of each song. Finn, despite his physically atrocious rhythm and movement, looks genuinely happy and committed to their duet. Santana notices their looks of adoration, and while it makes your chest feel like it's on fire, Santana makes gagging sounds beside you.

You're fairly confident you aren't thinking clearly while you take your time packing up after rehearsal and watch Finn hug Rachel before leaving with the others. Rachel has taken her seat at the piano, always staying after for her own personal practice time.

You walk up the steps of the stage, and Rachel looks up, somewhat surprised.

"Quinn… Did you want to talk about glee?" she asks, looking nervous. You haven't really spoken to her since the locker room, but she definitely looks your way less now that you're back in uniform.

"What's going on with you and Finn?" you say, putting your hands on the piano opposite her, bracing yourself against it.

She shrugs, "We're friends. We're the leads…"

"You should stay away from Finn," you say in a flat tone, looking directly at her.

"Finn and I can do whatever we want," she says, laughing disbelievingly, "Why do you care? He's not your boyfriend."

"Look, Berry," you say, rounding the piano, "girls like you don't end up with guys like Finn."

Her eyebrows furrow as she scowls at you, "Girls _like me_? I'll have you know _he_ asked _me_ out to dinner on Friday," she says, lifting her chin with a bit of pride.

"Let me guess: Breadsticks?" you scoff, "He's so bright, inviting a girl out to dinner where there's maybe one salad without meat on it. No wonder you two make such a great duo."

"While I appreciate your attention to my vegan diet, maybe I'm not going for the actual food but for the company."

"There's better company to keep," you mutter.

"Who? Like Noah?"

You glare at her, hiding the hurt. You get it, though—it's secret everyone knows, and you're surprised she hasn't used it against you sooner.

"I'm sorry," she says quietly.

"I don't need your pity, Berry," you spit back.

"I just… I understand… I think," she says, licking her lips as she mulls over her words, "Keeping company is nice, especially if you're lonely."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Never mind. You… you're always on the defensive. I think you're lonely, but then you're always pushing people away."

You clench your jaw, but you can't find anything to say.

Rachel sighs, eyes downcast as she stands and picks up her bag. "I don't know how to even talk to you," she says, laughing bitterly as she turns and starts to walk away.

"I'm not done talking to you!" you say harshly.

Rachel spins around and gives you a fierce look, taking a few strides to close the gap between you, "Talking _at_ me! I'm done listening!" she takes a steadying breath, "I can tolerate the slushies, the name-calling, and all this moody, bitchy bullshit you keep giving me. I never did _anything_ to you, Quinn Fabray."

She's about to turn around again, but instead you grab her arm. Your mind races with things you should say, insults you could throw, excuses you could make, but there's nothing that makes it out of your mouth. There wasn't a real reason to talk to her to begin with. When she stops and you've turned her toward you, you're pressed so close to her, so it's just her brown eyes looking at you with a mix of surprise and curiosity.

No words, no thoughts. You can only lean down and press your lips to hers. You vaguely recognize the sound of her bag hitting the floor, but you ignore it once her hands are grabbing at your shoulders and neck. She's kissing you back. There wasn't even a moment of hesitation, and this makes you smile into the kiss. Rachel sees this as an opportunity and traces her tongue along your upper lip and you hardly register the moan escaping you as you press her against the side of the piano.

Your hands are wrapped tightly around her waist, and you like the feeling of her muscles moving on her back as she pulls you closer when your tongues meet. You move your lips to her jawline, then her pulse point, scraping your teeth lightly on your way down to where her neck meets her shoulder.

" _Quinn_ ," Rachel manages, and it snaps you out of this moment of skin and teeth and her lavender shampoo and perfume.

In a split second, you've put two feet between you.

The only sound is the two of you trying to regain your breath. You manage to swallow despite your now dry mouth, and with only Rachel's silence and bruised lips and flushed face and dark eyes, you grab your bag and quickly make your way toward the nearest exit.

"Wait," Rachel calls, following you out.

You keep walking, shaking your head, trying to get rid of the feeling of her mouth, her warm skin humming beneath your lips.

A gentle hand takes yours, and you finally stop. Rachel walks around to face you.

"It… That… Please don't walk away again."

You stand there, silent and waiting for her to say something. She opens her mouth, but closes it as she reconsiders. You made a small mess of her hair, and her cheeks are still a bit pink. You smile a bit before you can help yourself. "A speechless Rachel Berry," you say quietly, "Is this an alternate universe?" The panic is easing and your voice isn't harsh. Just light and teasing, like a survival mechanism your body has just learned—like your body doesn't want to keep running from Rachel, keep lashing out.

"Quite possibly," Rachel says, directing her gaze to the floor, letting herself smile a bit. You watch as she licks her lips before looking up at you, "Whatever that was… It didn't mean anything, right?"

You gulp down some nerves and give a rigid nod, before clearing your throat and clarifying, "Right."

"As you know, I come from a very open-minded household, so it would be understandable that… _experimentation_ would be perceivably easy with me. I mean, this would explain—"

You roll your eyes. "It's not an experiment."

Rachel huffs. "What would you call it then?"

"I don't know… random?"

"It's happened twice. I already deemed the first time 'random,' and this time was much more… thorough."

"Fine, it's casual."

"Casual…" Rachel repeats, as if feeling the word on her tongue, testing it.

"Yeah. Casual."

"So, when you say that…" You hate the way your eyes automatically drop to her lips when she licks them again, "Do you… I…"

"Spit it out, Berry."

She exhales through her nose and puts her hands on her hips. "You're a bit of a loose cannon, Quinn. I'd like to know if you're going to punch me or kiss me next time you come at me, so I can be prepared for whatever crosses that impulsive brain of yours."

"What are you asking?"

"Is this going to happen again?!" Rachel exclaims, motioning between the two of you. "I flinch whenever someone walks by with a cup in this school. It's become a habit to hope the purple ones are for me because I tend to wear burgundy and that flavor isn't as bad as the rest… I have a certain amount of unpredictable behavior to tolerate from people, including you. So this 'casual' thing needs to be a little clearer because I'm unfortunately completely booked with my scheduled daily inconveniences."

You can't help but smirk at her rant and the way she glares at you after. You shrug, " _Inconveniences_?"

"Yes," Rachel huffs.

"I guess."

"You _guess_?" Rachel scoffs disbelievingly.

"Just go on your date with Finncompetent," you say, brushing by her to get to your car.

"Really? You are incorrigible," Rachel calls after you.

"Apparently you kind of like it," you say over your shoulder.

* * *

You may have repeated Bible verses in your head in bed that night. You may have imagined Rachel with her messy hair and swollen lips. You may have wondered when you would be able to do that again.

So when Rachel keeps glancing your way in every class you have together, you snicker to yourself. This whole scenario has reached a whole new level of battling for control with Rachel Berry, who likes controlling _everything_. She's a great kisser, you'll admit. You enjoy it, but it didn't mean much if anything—like she said. You decided this last night. Rachel Berry is harmless. At most, maybe it is experimenting. It's… fun. This whole high school thing? Like Frannie said: It's a game, so why not?

When you make it a point to lick your lips and smirk at Rachel at glee rehearsal, you have to work hard to hide your laughter when Rachel—perfectionist Rachel Berry—hits a note too sharp in her song. She doesn't look at you for the rest of rehearsal.

If she wants to talk to you after glee, you don't give her the option. You just give her a small smirk, then make your way out of the choir room, following after Santana and Brittany with a distinct sway of your hips.


	9. Chapter 9

**At the Crossroads**

* * *

 **13.**

Coach Sylvester promised a difficult practice tomorrow, so she gave the Cheerios the afternoon off. Mr. Schuester canceled glee to give the group a rest, much to Rachel's disapproval, so the school empties out quickly. Of course, you find Rachel in the choir room, setting out her music and notebooks. You close the choir room door behind you, making her jump. She turns and gives you a frown before turning back to her sheet music.

"Shouldn't you be getting ready for your date?" you ask casually, walking toward her and pulling a chair up, sitting to the side of the bench.

"That's not until seven," Rachel says, flipping through the music and marking some quick notes in the margins with her pencil.

"I thought your school girl crush would make you want to dress up and get all made up for Finn."

"Well, you thought wrong," she mutters, opening another book of music to one of the pages with post-its lining the side. "Besides, it only takes me forty-six minutes to get ready for whatever event I may be attending."

You snort at this. "You've timed it?"

"A rising star always has to maintain a consistent schedule and maintain a healthy, well-coordinated routine," she says, still refusing to look at you.

"What if someone throws a wrench in your plans?" you say, leaning toward her.

Rachel turns to face the piano, grazing her fingers over the keys. "I'm quite good at working around things," she says before playing a few keys to begin warming up.

You lean across her and shut the piano with a slam, Rachel pulling back her hands just before.

Rachel gasps, "You could've broken my fingers," she says, huffing, giving you a look of disbelief as you slide into the empty space beside her on the bench.

"I knew I wouldn't," you say, brushing the hair from her shoulder to expose her neck. You see her shiver slightly at your touch. There's something quite wonderful about having this newfound power over Rachel. "You don't seem to be so skilled at working around me," you say in her ear.

"You just get such a kick out of this, don't you?" Rachel says, standing abruptly and putting a few feet between the two of you.

"I guess I like an element of surprise."

"An _element_? You're the goddamn periodic table of unpredictable!" You bite your lip to keep from outright laughing. "You have been nothing but cruel to me since last year. We could've been friends, and now you're like… _this_."

You roll your eyes. "I don't need _friends_ , Rachel."

Rachel hesitates, opening her mouth a few times in attempt to respond as you stand and approach her. "So what? This is just a power-trip for you?"

You shrug. "Sure. And you're a pretty good kisser."

"Thank—Wait, what do I get out of this?" Rachel is frazzled, running her hand through her hair before crossing her arms, trying to regain her composure.

"A thrill in your boring, tedious life?"

You see her face flush slightly, so you know you struck a nerve. You slowly close the distance, and she doesn't back away. "You get to chase Finnept. I get to have fun without it occupying too much of my time. I don't have time for boys and their stupidity right now. Between school and Cheerios—"

"And glee."

"Yeah, sure…" you say, "I'm making sure I get out of this hell hole, and you can keep convincing yourself that Finn can actually follow you out of here so you can live happily ever after."

"Maybe I'm just fine going about my business without you interrupting everything," Rachel says, lifting her chin to look up at you defiantly.

"But you can work around it," you say, standing in front of her. "If it's a real inconvenience for you."

You watch her lick her lips, and her eyes glance down at yours. She doesn't move away as you trace the exposed skin from her collar bone, up the side of her neck. You lean closer to her, examining her face for any sign of hesitancy. You smirk when you feel her breath and the rise and fall of her chest as she steadies herself. You both close your eyes, and you graze your lips against hers. You grin into the kiss when she pulls you closer by your Cheerios jacket to let your lips meet with more urgency.

You back her up against the cabinets, and when she gasps as her back hits them with a dull thud, you let your tongue slip out to taste her minty chapstick. Her hands slip into your open jacket, pulling at your waist. With your hands at the nape of her neck, you sigh into the kiss when her tongue brushes yours.

You pull away slightly, and she blinks her eyes open, slightly dazed. You can't help but chuckle lightly.

She scowls, shoving you by your shoulder lightly. "Don't let it go to your head."

"You want this," you say, licking your lips to taste her chapstick again.

"As long as it's convenient for the both of us," she says.

You nod, bowing your head to ghost your lips over her cheek.

"No strings," she says, tentative hands slipping back into your jacket to play with the hem of your Cheerio's top.

"None."

You kiss her again until you both pull away for air, and when she insists on actually rehearsing, you let her… for a while. She doesn't look at you while she practices, but you watch her—her breathing, her mouth forming the words, her eyes closing as she feels the song held in her lungs and released into the air. So after every song, rather than ask you your opinion or talk about glee or school, you sit next to her on the piano bench and kiss her until she's breathless.

* * *

You lie in bed, holding your phone to your ear.

"You okay?" you say calmly.

You hear her snort into the phone, "Of course. They're dating. It's not like they're in love."

You almost ask if she is, but you don't think she'd give you an honest answer. You're not sure you could handle it if she did tell you the truth—it might sound a bit too much like yours.

"Britts can date Artie all she wants. I'm still getting laid."

"How long will that last?"

"Like I know. It's just whatever for now. Besides, the plumbing's different—"

"Do you have to be so crass?"

"Sorry, didn't know I was talking to Virgin Mary," Santana laughs into the phone, "I'm just saying… It's not like it's cheating."

"It's whatever you say it is," you say, shrugging to yourself.

"Exactly."

* * *

Finn and Rachel perform a duet together, and most of the club subtly looks at you after they finish "Don't Go Breakin' My Heart." You just roll your eyes as you clap, but Santana continues to file her nails as if she didn't see a thing. You smile a bit when Rachel just takes her seat, not looking in your direction. She avoids your gaze often, and you like to think you're in her thoughts enough for her to avoid you during school.

* * *

The annual Thanksgiving party is inclusive this year, since Coach Bieste thinks it's best for glee to get along with the football team and Cheerios. You convince the freshmen to go after the perverted boys who can't keep it in their pants when they spy on them at practice. Santana was almost suspended for slapping a kid in the face for putting his hand on her leg, but Coach Sylvester pulled some strings; needless to say, he'll be receiving several slushies in the near future. You're happy about this, knowing glee is still safe for the most part.

"Woah, slow it down," Puck says, watching you throw back a tequila shot with Santana.

"Okay, Dad," you say, drinking from your gin and tonic.

"I'm just saying," he says with a shrug, letting Santana sort of wrap herself around him. She's been at his side all night, and you definitely notice Brittany's been in Artie's lap all night, laughing at his jokes, running her hand through his hair. It's a strange pair, but Brittany seems happy—Santana doesn't seem to see them at all, which means she's actively doing her best to ignore them.

You guess you know all this because Finn has his arm around Rachel, and she keeps smiling as Finn points to her as he talks to a teammate. He's proud of her, and based on his weird movements, you guess he's talking about Sectionals. You know he and Puck are doing their best to make glee acceptable to the rest of the team. One of the jocks even high-fives Rachel at some point, making her laugh. Finn looks down at her with a dopey grin before leaning down and kissing her on the cheek.

You throw back another shot and let yourself just focus on the other boys in the room.

* * *

You're sitting on a towel in front of Santana's toilet again. Brittany drove you and Santana home, which you vaguely remember. You're almost asleep, your chin propped up in your hand, elbow rested on the rim of the toilet, but the sound of the door opening makes your head snap up. You decide not to make any sudden movements when your vision swirls and your temples feel as if they're bursting.

"We gotta stop meeting like this," Santana says, handing you a glass of water and aspirin. She has another glass in her hand for herself, and she just sits on the edge of the tub with a groan.

* * *

 **14.**

"You're unbelievable," Rachel says in a harsh whisper once you cross into her bedroom.

"I don't know. Your dads seemed to think that you were a great choice for a Pre-Calc tutor," you say innocently, dropping your book bag on her floor and closing her door. "They didn't murder me, so I'm assuming they don't know about me."

"About what an _asshat_ you turned into? No."

You bite your lip to keep from laughing. Getting a rise out of Rachel has become your latest hobby.

Rachel's room is bright, with slightly less pink than you expected. Dance competition trophies, photos from choir performances, and Broadway posters line her walls. You also notice the keyboard in the corner of her room and the porous squares on the walls. You've seen them in choir rooms—sound proofing diffusers, turning her room into her own little studio.

"How's it going with Finncompetent?" you ask, taking a look around her room.

"Clever. And it's none of your business," she says, crossing her arms as she stands by her desk, watching you move about.

"Who's this?" you ask, pointing at a photo on her mirror of a curly-haired boy with brown hair and dimples.

"A friend."

"He doesn't go to McKinley?"

Rachel shakes her head. "We met… we met at theater camp."

You don't laugh because that'd be too predictable.

"He moved to New York and goes to a prep school, but he's training for NYADA."

"NYADA?"

"New York Academy of the Dramatic Arts," Rachel explains with a sigh, "It's a very prestigious school."

You hum and nod.

Rachel clears her throat and sits on the edge of her bed, "So… Pre-Calc?"

You chuckle. "We could…" you say, sitting beside her, bouncing a bit on the bed.

She lets out a bit of a huff, picking some lint off her dress. When she looks at you, you're biting back a smirk and just raise an eyebrow in question. "Eff it," Rachel mutters, her hands on the back of your neck in a split second and pulling you closer to kiss her.

You almost laugh, but when you open your mouth and inhale the taste of peach lip balm and subtle mint, you instead nip at her bottom lip before running your tongue along it. You adjust your position so you're facing her more, letting one of your hands hold her waist and the other run up her arm, tracing a path to the back of her neck before running through her hair. It's as soft as it looks, and you lightly scrape your nails, eliciting a small moan from her.

You decide that Pre-Calc study sessions might become a regular occurrence.

* * *

You don't ask, but you know Finn wants to make his relationship with Rachel official, most likely to try and get further than making out with her.

School remains the same, but everything feels different. Instead of wondering why Rachel's avoiding you, you smile to yourself when you remember her hands running over your back, or the way she gently sucked on your earlobe. Although no slushies have been thrown, you've heard the Cheerios direct snarky comments at Rachel. She doesn't acknowledge them for the most part; she just keeps walking down the hall in what seem to be shorter and shorter skirts each day, despite the winter weather. You've also noticed Rachel refuses to back down more in glee—if Santana tries to make a snide remark, Rachel will quickly put her in place. You're actually pretty impressed. You wish she stood up to others more, including you.

You find a note in your locker after school. You unfold it, and in the familiar, perfect handwriting, you read:

 _If you need more Pre-Calc help, my dads are gone until seven tonight._

You text Santana that you can't go shopping with her and Britt, and she quickly responds with, _I'll drop you off at home even though you're a terrible friend_. You throw your things into your backpack before speed-walking to the parking lot.

* * *

You feel her hum in approval as your tongue finds her pulse. She lightly scratches your shoulder blade through your shirt, and for a moment you wonder who made the first move to lie down on her bed—you slightly lying to her right side, supporting your weight on one arm, your other on her hip.

The thought slips away as her hands trail down your back and skin meets skin where your shirt has risen. You nip at her neck, and when her chest meets yours as she inhales deeply, you do it again. Her nails dig into you back slightly, and your grip on her tightens, pulling her closer so your bodies press together.

You know you should probably slow down, think things through a bit before proceeding, but your hand has slipped under her shirt, trailing your fingers along her smooth skin, letting your nails graze the dimples of her back. Your nose skims over her jawline as you place small kisses up to the corner of her lips.

You pull away slightly when she lets out a breathy laugh.

"What?" you ask, your voice husky from lack of use.

"Your hair just tickled," Rachel says quietly with an amused grin, brushing some of your hair from your face.

Your lips curve at the sight of her, slightly flushed, her lips bruised. "Sorry," you say.

She shakes her head slightly. "It's fine. I don't mind it," she says, running her hand through a few locks of your hair, watching it slip through her fingers as you just focus on her eyes. People always talk about your eyes—the changing colors, the rarity of eyes like yours—but you find Rachel's to be perfect. They're bright, even with her pupils blown from your heated kissing. They hold a certain optimism you associate with her, and you feel lighter, more like sunlight and warmth than the cold, stone-gray your eyes sometimes reflect back at you in the mirror.

"What?" Rachel asks, looking somewhat shy under your gaze.

You shake your head. "Nothing," you say, watching her lick her lips, unsure of your response. "You know, you talk a lot less than I thought."

She pushes you so you roll off to the side with a chuckle. "Wow, you know how to sweet-talk a girl," she says, stifling her own smile.

You prop yourself up on your elbows as she lies on her side, head in her hand as she looks at you. You watch her scan your body, and when she makes eye-contact with you again, you smirk knowingly.

"I don't know how anyone takes you seriously, Quinn Fabray," she says, grabbing one of her little, frilly pillows and throwing it so it bounces off your face.

You pick it up, and it's a little smiling star. You hold it front of your own face and put on a chipper voice, "But I'm so cute and charming."

"Those weren't the two words I'd go with," Rachel counters.

You toss the pillow to the side. "Right," you say, shifting so you're on your side, closer to her, "'Asshat' and 'bitch' are practically my middle names."

"Luckily, 'persuasive' and 'good kisser' are on there," Rachel says, leaning toward you so the heat of her breath breezes over your lips.

"Are you sure about the last one? I think I need to check," you say, hearing a light laugh escape from Rachel.

"Shut up and come here," she says, pulling you close and kissing you.

You deepen the kiss, and you feel breathless when Rachel's hands guide you so you're on top of her, bodies pressed together, and you're sure she must feel your heart thudding with a great weight. You move your lips to her neck again, taking a deep breath of light perfume and her skin before tasting it. When you suck her pulse point, she inhales deeply, and you're sure the both of you are floating.

* * *

You laugh because Frannie is definitely intoxicated. She just got back from a night out with "the boys," meaning the intramural indoor soccer team that requires a girl present to play a game—the guys love her because she's actually good. She was a little emotional, having just gotten off the phone with Daniel—they agreed to be friends upon her return to Dartmouth. You admire her beauty, even though she's slightly messy with her hair up in a sloppy bun and her eyes are shining from crying or trying not to cry.

"I miss England, and those assholes and their stupid accents," she says, pulling the blanket around her, "And _Christ_ it's so cold. Our landlord likes to pretend 'utilities included' means he can be cheap with our gas use."

"You'll go back, and I'm sure dad would be happy to tell him off."

She shakes her head, "I don't want to talk about anything relating to money with dad."

"True," you agree. Your phone vibrates on your desk, and you see it's a text message from Rachel, which is rare.

 _Quinn Fabray. While our study session was productive, you left a bit of a mess._

You let out a laugh, knowing exactly what she's talking about. You didn't want to tell her, but you noticed the signs of bruising along Rachel's neck just before you left. You hope they last until Monday just so you can see what ridiculous method Rachel uses to cover them up and hide them from Finn.

"Who's got you all smiles, Lucy Q?" Frannie asks, sipping from her water bottle.

You shake your head as you type a quick, _Sorry… sort of._ "Just stupid glee stuff."

"Ah," Frannie says with a knowing nod, "If I remember correctly, you were quite fond of performing Britney Spears in front of your mirror when you were little. What's so bad about glee?"

You give her an exaggerated glare for referencing the one time she caught you playing dress-up and singing into a hair brush while dancing around your room. "It's fine. I just don't take it seriously. Not as seriously as Rachel takes it."

"How is that, by the way? Is she still tiny and annoying?"

You shrug, "She's tolerable, I guess."

Frannie laughs. "If you can be friends with Mohawk, then I'm sure a little diva isn't so bad."

"She's dating Finn, and she's got her whole life planned out perfectly," you say, rolling your eyes.

"Sounds like a Fabray."

You scoff. "Definitely not. She's naïve to an obnoxious extent. She thinks she can have it all, that she'll go off to New York and have this epic romance and bring a new life and energy to Broadway…"

Frannie quirks an eyebrow. "You sound intimidated."

"No. Annoyed."

"Who says people can't have their dreams come true? It's okay to have dreams, Luce—as long as you pay attention to the good stuff when you're awake, you know?"

You chuckle, "Frannie, you're drunk."

"I'm wise," Frannie says in a very serious tone before she breaks into a smile and giggles. "But seriously, Luce… you don't have to crush the poor girl's dreams. Focus on making your own come true, yeah?"

You nod. "Thanks, oh wise one."

"No problem," she says with a lazy grin. "I need to go to bed because I can already feel my hangover looming. But I'll talk to you later."

"Okay. Love you."

"Love you too."

You close your computer and get into bed. Your phone buzzes again, and you grin when you see Rachel responded.

 _If my dads see I'm in trouble._

 _They'd really be that upset?_ you text back.

She replies quickly. _No. They'd probably be really happy but want me to tell them and it'd be all kinds of uncomfortable._

You laugh quietly. _I'll buy you a scarf._

 _I have plenty. I'm going to bed and so should you. Asshat._

 _Night._

You roll onto your side in bed, and you can't wipe the grin from your face. When you start dozing, you think of Rachel, of kissing her and wrapping your arms around her in the glow of the lights on Broadway with her name on the marquee. You start to push the thoughts from your mind as sleep approaches, but you remember the feeling of her lips on yours and let the dreams of city lights and brown eyes and quiet melodies of her voice back in.


	10. Chapter 10

**At the Crossroads**

* * *

 **15.**

You aren't entirely surprised by the public announcement of Rachel and Finn's new relationship. They're officially dating, and Finn proudly sang Bruno Mars "Just the Way You Are" to Rachel in front of the whole glee club. The rest of the club awed and clapped for them. You kept a straight face and clapped without much enthusiasm as they shared a brief kiss while Santana made gagging sounds beside you on the risers.

* * *

Winter break is approaching, so suddenly you find a wrench in your own plans to continue your Pre-Calc study sessions. Although your parents were initially concerned with your sudden departure from Chastity Club, they're pleased that no boys have been making frequent appearances at your house. You've mostly gone to Rachel's house to "study," and Rachel has come over to "watch a movie" while your parents are at poker night at the country club.

You can hardly hear the movie as Rachel pants beneath you. You've found the part on her neck, right below her ear, where she holds her breath for a moment whenever you first graze your lips there. You're running your tongue over this spot, and you can make out the murmuring of _Love, Actually_ playing in the background.

Rachel's hips dig into the couch cushions, and she lets out a moan when you bite her collar bone.

"No hickies," she rasps out.

"Sure," you mumble against her skin, giving her another small bite above the line of her v-neck shirt.

"I'm serious, Quinn," Rachel says, but she's still sighing and running her hands through your hair.

You move up her body and kiss her lips; it's surprisingly gentle at first, but Rachel deepens it. You press your body more fully against hers, and you move your hips to shift the weight on your arms when Rachel breaks away with a gasp.

"What?" you ask with some concern.

"Do that again," she says, lifting her head to kiss you.

"What?" you manage to say against her mouth.

"This," Rachel says, lifting her leg so it rubs between your legs, making your breath hitch.

You pause and look down at her, her hair fanned out on the couch pillow, red lips, bright, brown eyes reflecting the dim lighting of your basement. Suddenly you're aching, and you want her leg pressed against you again, but you don't let yourself voice your need. Instead, you capture her lips in a fierce kiss and shift your thigh so it presses with more certainty against her core. Now that you have some direction, you notice how warm she is against your leg. You hum against her lips, and you break the kiss for an almost embarrassing moan when she lifts her leg to satiate the throbbing between yours.

* * *

You're lying in bed, freshly showered, but there's still tension between your legs. You close your eyes and slip your hand beneath the waistband of your pajama bottoms. You think of the sounds Rachel made beneath you, the way she murmured your name, the gentle shaking and flush of her skin after you've both lost your breath from rubbing your bodies closely together for any sense of friction you could muster. Your fingers are wet, and you find the bundle of nerves you've learned about, and soon enough you're quaking more than you'd ever let yourself in front of Rachel. Your chest heaves, and you remember the feeling of Rachel's against yours.

When you come, you wipe your fingers on your bottoms and roll onto your side as you catch your breath. You squeeze your eyes shut tightly, pushing scripture and confessions from your mind. You're just a teenager with hormones. Rachel is just a girl who's there. You don't let yourself think about it beyond that.

* * *

You're happy that you're naturally good at school because most of your study time has been spent with Rachel. Still, you have a final project due in Physics before the break, and luckily Mercedes paired up with you.

"I don't understand Mr. Reed's obsession with 'hands-on' projects," you grumble, trying not to super-glue your fingers together as you assemble some of the wooden parts of what is supposed to be a projectile.

Mercedes snorts, "Dude has done NASA work with the president," she says, "He literally teaches here for fun and because his wife is from here."

"So he enjoys torturing us," you say, groaning when one of the pieces sticks to your hand. "Shit," you mutter, grabbing the nearby X-Acto knife to carefully slide between your finger and the glue for the third time.

Mercedes laughs, "You know. I used to think you were really scary."

You quirk and eyebrow and look up once your finger is free, "And now?"

"You just seem happier," Mercedes says nonchalantly, "And the number of slushie attacks has decreased… at least for the girls."

You shrug it off, flipping a few pages in your physics book to find more information on projectiles. "I guess it's glee. I don't have to be responsible for a bunch of uncoordinated Cheerios there."

"Yeah. It's a good space," Mercedes says, nodding in understanding, "Don't worry; I won't tell anyone you like glee," she adds with a small smirk.

You smile back at her and bump her shoulder with yours when you rejoin her at the counter with your pathetic looking contraption.

"I don't know how you do it," Mercedes says, taking the glue from you before you glue yourself to the counter.

"What do you mean?"

She chuckles. "Dominate the school. Run Cheerios. Sing and dance in glee. Make all the boys swoon."

You roll your eyes, "I think it's because I don't care what boys want anymore. It's what I want."

Mercedes hums. "More power to you."

You start humming a song Rachel got stuck in your head last night. It's probably from some musical that's fifty-years-old, but you didn't ask. You showed up for your normal study session, but Rachel had to finish some homework before "Pre-Calc," so you both used the opportunity to get some work done together. Rachel, apparently, hums to herself when she's doing school work, which you found annoying, so you threw a pillow at her. Her facial expression and the resulting rant about comforting study habits made it difficult to hide a smile and stay seated on the floor and not get up to start the study session earlier.

Mercedes looks at you for a moment before busying herself with the mechanical pen that's supposed to somehow launch a small marble from your contraption. "So… can I ask a favor?"

"Mhm, sure," you say, using the ruler to check the length of the wooden pieces to make sure you're assembling it correctly.

"Would you be able to help me study for Spanish?"

You look at her with a confused expression.

"I'd ask Santana, but she still scares me," Mercedes explains, making a small laugh escape you, "And I know you help Rachel with Pre-Calc, and you're always getting A's—"

"How… I…" You feel the blood draining from your face, and you can't find the words to make up an excuse.

"I know you have some weird _image_ to uphold. I won't tell. I just heard Rachel telling Finn that she couldn't go to a movie because she had a Pre-Calc exam and she had to study," Mercedes says. You look at her to gauge how much she knows, and it seems innocent enough. "And you said you have tutoring every Thursday, so… I just put two-and-two together."

"Yeah. She offered me some vocal lessons in exchange," you say.

Mercedes laughs, "I definitely have noticed she doesn't yell at you nearly as much in glee."

You smile, "Yeah. I'll admit she does know what she's doing," you focus on the book again, "But she's still obnoxious as hell."

"Mmm, that's true," Mercedes says with a chuckle, "But I guess someone has to be if glee club is going to make it through Regionals."

* * *

You sit in the backseat, and whenever you ride home from church like this, you feel like Lucy again—frightened, insecure, like the black sheep. You listen to your father rant about the inclusivity of some churches, how _anyone_ can be Catholic these days. You play with the cross on your neck, and you ask for God's forgiveness as you watch the snow start to fall outside—full of grace.

* * *

You groan, enjoying the sound of Rachel's heavy breathing in your ear. You have her pressed up against her bedroom door, having wasted not a second once she closed it. Her dads are out doing some Hanukkah shopping, but Rachel is always cautious. You push your hips to meet hers, but it doesn't feel like enough.

It all started with making out, then making out lying down, and recently alleviating the throbbing between each other's legs. It's been over month, and you admit that you want her closer, but you're not sure what that means or how close.

"Don't stop," Rachel says, grinding down on your thigh, finding the rhythm you two have grown accustomed to.

"Or what?" you say, pulling your leg away.

"Asshat," Rachel says, pushing you away from her. "You were the one who pounced on me as soon as you got here."

You shrug, taking off your jacket that you hardly noticed was still on. You drape it over the back of her desk chair before walking over and flopping onto Rachel's bed.

"I've been thinking…" Rachel says, and you feel your heart stop briefly, a mild sense of panic setting in. You turn your head and see her standing beside her bed, looking unsure. "Is this… Is this still okay?"

You prop yourself up on your elbows, "Yeah. Why wouldn't it be?"

"I don't know. We just hardly talk in school," she says, biting the inside of her cheek for a moment, "And I have Finn and… I don't know."

You chuckle casually, "That was the idea of it all, wasn't it?"

Rachel nods, but her eyes are downcast.

You sit up and scooch to the edge of the bed and duck your head a bit to find her gaze. "Is it still okay for you?"

"Yeah," Rachel says, nodding with certainty.

"Because it's… you know it's not cheating, right? This," you motion to the room vaguely, "It… doesn't really count. No strings."

"No feelings," Rachel says quietly.

You swallow uneasily, "Yeah. Exactly."

You take Rachel by the hand and pull her closer. She stands between your legs, leaning down to meet your lips. "Just this," you whisper against her lips.

* * *

You see Rachel and Finn holding hands, and your chest aches. You can't keep apologizing every Sunday, but when you watch Rachel's mouth move, you can't stop yourself from remembering her breath and the holy sounds she lets slip from her mouth to yours when you kiss.

* * *

You're in class, watching Rachel mindlessly twirl your hair when it happens. You remember the times after kissing for hours when she would lie beside you and play with a few strands of your hair. You know that this isn't just hormones, but the thudding muscle in your chest. You want the tender parts of her—her smiles, her hands, her soft voice in your ear, her laughter.

You feel as if you can't get enough air into your lungs, and your heart is pounding against your sternum, sending shockwaves to your ribs. You raise your shaking hand and don't both asking, grabbing your notebook and bag and muttering, "I need to go to the nurse."

* * *

It was a panic attack. After lying down in the nurse's office for a few minutes, she directed you to Miss Pillsbury.

Now you're sitting across Miss Pillsbury's desk, watching the woman adjust a few small items in front of her before sighing and looking at you calmly.

"Panic attacks are quite common, Quinn," she says gently. If it were coming from anyone else, you'd feel patronized and walk out, but you know she talks to everyone like this. "Especially with students like yourself. You have quite an impressive resume already, but perfectionism can be draining." She pauses and waits for you to respond, so you simply nod. "I can imagine that you have had to make a lot of sacrifices to commit to all you do. This means some things may go unnoticed, or things get pushed to the side—things you may need."

You nod again, and when Miss Pillsbury figures you won't be saying anything, she clears her throat and walks over to a small filing cabinet.

"I have some literature," she says, pulling out several brochures. "I'm not a doctor, so I can't diagnose you with anything. Either way, you're your own person, Quinn. I'll just give you a bunch, so if there is anything that catches your attention, you can talk to me about it."

"Thanks," you say, offering her a small smile before taking the brochures and leaving.

* * *

For the most part, the brochures are absurd. There are a lot of photos of crying teens, and while you have definitely cried, you're not nearly as dramatic.

You're sitting at your desk with one specific brochure: _So your hormones are taking over…_

Inside, there is basic information on safe sex, primarily emphasizing abstinence, as Ohio requires. Then there is a separate part of the tri-fold devoted entirely to sexuality. It's vague, but there is a link provided for more information.

You slowly type in the web address before hitting enter. When the website pops up, and _Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, and Transgender_ appears in large font at the top, you quickly exit the page and delete your web history.

You know you don't need to research it. You know how you're feeling. You know that the first stage is acceptance: You want more with Rachel, and you know it's not your hormones. Quinn Fabray doesn't accept flaws like this, but Quinn Fabray is human—this part of you still has its limits, and your body still has this unpredictable pulse, matching the rhythm of this yearning muscle in your chest.

* * *

You managed to ace your Physics project and agreed to help Mercedes with Spanish every other week next term in order to "fit your Cheerios practices and glee in."

Now that winter break has commenced, you're freezing as your parents make you wander around the markets for an appropriately-sized Christmas tree. You round a corner when you collide with someone.

"Sorry," says a familiar voice.

"Rachel," you say, and you sound more happy and surprised than you'd like.

"Oh, hello, Quinn," Rachel says, clearing her throat.

"Why are you at a Christmas tree farm?"

"I'm—"

"Rach!" Finn appears down a row of pine trees and trots over to the both of you. He leans down and plants a kiss on Rachel's cheek. "Find anything good?"

"Yeah… I mean, no, not yet," Rachel says, not making eye contact with you.

"Hey, Quinn," Finn says with an awkward wave, but a genuine smile. The two of you are civil now, and you both realize—or at least you do—that the two of you were a mess anyway.

"Hey," you say, offering a half-smile.

"We were just meeting here to help my mom find a Christmas tree for the house," Finn explains. "But we're going to get some hot chocolate at the Lima Bean with a few other glee kids, if you want to join?"

You're figure it's most likely Mike and Tina, so you shake your head. "No thanks. I'm here with my parents, too. Tonight's Decoration Night at the Fabray's."

"Okay, well have fun," Finn says, crooked grin in place. "We'll see you around."

You nod, "Yeah, see you."

Rachel offers a small wave before walking off with Finn, hand-in-hand. You don't question why your chest clenches when you see him pull a piece of mistletoe from his pocket and hear Rachel laugh lightly before standing on her tip-toes and placing a small kiss on his lips. You confess to yourself: _I've fallen for Rachel Berry._


	11. Chapter 11

**At the Crossroads**

* * *

 **16.**

A couple of days after your run-in at the Christmas market, Rachel texts you, letting you know that her dads are gone, asking if you want to watch a movie. You walk several blocks in the cold to get there, and you're pleasantly surprised when Rachel greets you with hot cocoa that she made with _actual_ milk for you. Surprisingly, she does have a movie, which the both of you agree on watching.

Everything feels rather new—sitting close to her, cradling your hot cocoa in your hands and unsure how to act—like it's a date, now that you've admitted to yourself what you want out of all of this. At one point, you see Rachel's phone light up with a text message. She types out a quick response, her face neutral, before sending a response.

You don't ask questions. When Rachel sighs, you're not sure what kind of mental lapse strikes, but you nudge her with your shoulder. She looks at you with a small smile, but it looks sad. Part of you likes that she lets herself shed some layers of this role she plays around you, but mostly you want her brightness back in her eyes. You lift your arm, and she nestles into you. You feel her breath warm the fabric of your shirt, and you stroke her arm with your hand.

You're sure that if you were braver, this would be the moment you'd tell her she's beautiful—you'd tell her she's more than a body to keep you warm over break. As you continue watching the movie, you're sure Hollywood could make hundreds of cheesy Christmas movies out of the ridiculous dreams you have about kissing her on Christmas morning, out in the snow, or anywhere.

* * *

When the movie ends, you don't move right away, thinking Rachel fell asleep against you. You look down when you feel her hand graze the side of your stomach.

"Everything okay?" you say quietly.

Rachel just nods against you, playing with the hem of your cardigan.

You wait for a moment as the credits roll. "Do…Should I go?"

Rachel sits up, and the room feels cold without her against you. She shakes her head, biting her lip as she takes your hand.

"Unless you want to," she says, standing and tugging your hand to make you follow.

"I'll stay," you say softly.

She leads you up to her room, and although Rachel doesn't talk nearly as much as you'd expect, she's been almost silent since your arrival.

You almost ask if she's okay again, but Rachel wraps her arms around you and pulls you into a deep kiss. She pulls your cardigan off before gently pushing you back onto the bed so she's on top of you. You fall rather clumsily, and you both laugh as you awkwardly reposition yourselves. The laughter dies when Rachel straddles your waist and kisses you again, grinding her hips down. You curse the fact that you decided to wear jeans, but your Cheerios spanks didn't make much sense given that it's winter and school's not in session.

"Take this off," you say once Rachel's lips trace your jawline before she sucks lightly on your earlobe. Your hands fumble with the hem of her ridiculous Hanukah sweater.

Rachel sits upright before hastily pulling off her sweater. You didn't realize she didn't have a shirt underneath, so you stare at her heaving chest in a black and white polka dot bra and her toned stomach.

When you meet Rachel's eyes, you see she's blushing. You sit up to kiss her softly, dragging your tongue over her pulse as you run your hands from her bare waist to her back, lightly scraping your nails up and down.

Rachel hums in approval, and you let your kisses trail lower past her collarbone to her sternum, ghosting your lips and breath over the exposed skin above her bra. Rachel's hands find the hem of your shirt and you help her pull it over your head. She pushes you back, and you let yourself fall. Your head lands on the pillow and you realize you don't feel insecure when Rachel's eyes roam over your body. For once it was with appreciation, not disgust like Lucy received in dance class or from her mother at dress fittings.

Rachel mirrors your earlier actions, and your eyes flutter closed, savoring the feeling of her lips and hair skimming over your body. When Rachel kisses you again, there's something disarmingly gentle about it. It opens your lungs, but exposes them to the floods. Your breath hitches at the unexpected feeling, so you roll over so you're atop her.

"Control freak," Rachel mumbles.

You chuckle, "Mhm."

You both sigh into each other's mouths when you feel the bare skin of your stomachs meet. You find your rhythm.

You let out an annoyed sigh when you realize your jeans are restricting contact.

"What?"

"Nothing," you mutter, "It's… just my jeans."

"Take them off," Rachel says simply.

The Chastity Club part of you says no, says that this has gone too far, that this is out of line. The part of you that is hovering over Rachel Berry's half-dressed body, the one aching to be closer to hers and feel more of her—that part wins out as soon as Rachel uses a finger to trace a path down to your bellybutton, then the top of the button of your jeans.

She looks at you for confirmation, and you give a small nod. Your arms tremble somewhat as you hold your weight and feel Rachel's fingers slip a margin into your pants to undo the button. The feel of her hands pulling your pants past your hips and to your thighs almost makes you collapse onto her in anticipation. You maneuver your weight onto one arm to slide them off your legs before kicking them off the bed.

You look at Rachel, who takes in your underwear clad body, and when she meets your eyes, you see her blown pupils and assume yours probably look the same. She lifts her hips, and you look down at where your bodies are almost meeting and watch her shimmy out of her sweatpants.

"It's only fair," Rachel says with a slight blush, kicking her sweatpants off to join yours.

You smile before kissing her and letting your body press into hers. You hear her gasp, and you're sure you did as well. You use your knee to part her legs, and she lifts hers to continue where you left off. This time you both moan. With only your underwear between you, you can feel more than before. You thought this might alleviate some of the desperation, but it only makes you start moving faster, pushing into her.

Your kisses get sloppier as you adjust your arms and push your knees into the bed to thrust against her with better direction and force. You give up trying to keep your mouth against hers and instead rest your head beside hers, occasionally biting her shoulder as she tries to keep your pace.

She's panting in your ear, and you feel something coil in your stomach at the sound of her breath. Without much thought and just an eagerness to touch her more, you slip your hand under her back when she arches up to meet your thrust. Later you'll be impressed by the fact that you unhooked her bra with one hand, but right now you just know you want to see her, touch her. Her eyes are glazed over when you briefly sit up to let her pull the bra straps from her arms. At first, she holds her arm in front of herself, but you take her hand and move it to the side, letting your fingers entwine with hers as your eyes rake over her breasts.

You unhook your own bra and quickly slip out of it, and Rachel smiles timidly as you both momentarily take each other's almost-naked bodies in.

"It's only fair," you repeat with a small grin.

You lean down and place feather-light kisses atop her breasts, her heaving chest meeting your lips. When you press your chest to hers, you decide that chastity meant nothing but deprivation, and that Rachel's body against yours is the farthest from sin—that it must be the closest thing to finding salvation.

When you press your leg back into Rachel, you both moan. Yours is more out of surprise to find that you can feel how wet she is. When the pace quickens, the familiar tightening in your lower abdomen drives you to keep going despite your tired arms.

"Quinn," Rachel says in a strangled voice, "I think…" You feel Rachel's leg slowing, and when you look at her, her eyes are shut as she bites her bottom lip, obviously unable to focus on anything but your leg between hers. "Don't stop, please."

You continue your movements, kissing your way back to her breasts. You give her right nipple a tentative lick, and when Rachel's hips cant to meet your leg, you continue until you take it into your mouth and suck, feeling it tighten between your lips as you let your tongue flick over it.

Suddenly Rachel's shaking beneath you, her hands are in your hair, tugging, and saying your name in a long moan. You kiss the middle of her chest before shifting backup to her lips. Her eyes are still closed, but she has a content, tired smile on her face. She blinks her eyes open.

She lets out an embarrassed, breathy laugh. "Wow," she says, her flushed face turning a deeper shade of red.

You grin and simply lean down to kiss the corner of her mouth. You shift to the side, and lie beside her. With your chest against her arm, you feel the slight tremors in her body start to fade. You place a small kiss on her shoulder. You're not really sure what to do, other than stay close to her.

After a few moments, she rolls to her side and kisses you softly. You smile against her lips, and her hands find your bare waist. When she pushes your shoulders, you pull away slightly.

"You don't have to," you say, running your hand through her hair, savoring the warmth of her skin on your fingertips.

"I want to," she says, kissing you and pushing you onto your back.

You give in, closing your eyes as her hands explore your skin, tracing the veins of your arms back to your thudding heart. With her lips on your neck, then your breasts and stomach, and her leg between yours, it only takes a few moments of steady rocking before you're breathless, the air leaving your lungs with grace, like the snow falling outside her bedroom window.

* * *

Frannie arrives home the day before Christmas. She sits with a cup of tea, talking to you and your mother. She eyes you across the table, but you ignore her looks as you passively suggest topics of conversation, inciting a slew of questions from your mother. Frannie answers as if she rehearsed—you always thought Fabrays would make quality improvisation actors.

When your mother runs to grab your scrapbook to show Frannie the news articles about the Cheerios, Frannie kicks your shin under the table.

" _Cold_ , Lucy Q?" she inquires, raising an eyebrow at your attire.

"Mom got this for me last week," you say, adjusting the scarf around your neck.

You can tell your sister is about to say more, but your mother walks back in.

"Quinnie is doing so well at McKinley. Such a star!" she says, opening the scrapbook and flipping to the most recent article.

"I'm sure she is," you sister remarks, dodging your glare as she beams at your mother.

* * *

Your parents have to check on a food drive at the country club, leaving you and Frannie to catch up on your sisterly bonding. As soon as Frannie follows you into your room, she yanks the scarf off you. She's laughing so hard, she needs to sit. You close your bedroom door and stand there with your arms crossed.

"Are you done?"

Frannie is dramatically gasping for air, wiping tears from her eyes. She looks at you for a moment before bursting into another fit of laughter.

"I thought it'd be _a_ hickey, not like someone threw a dozen leeches on you!" Frannie says, now rolling on your bed. "Oh, Lucy Q, I'm so proud," she says, regaining her breath, "Who branded you?"

You walk over and yank the scarf from her grasp, putting it back on to cover the four hickies Rachel left you as "payback."

"No one _branded_ me," you say, knowing that your face is blushing. "There was a stupid party and I drank a lot."

Frannie shakes her head disbelievingly. "Tell me who!" she demands. "Is he hot?"

"It doesn't matter," you say.

"Sure it does! …Not mohawk guy, right?" she asks, looking mildly concerned.

"I'm not telling you who, but no—it was not Puck."

Frannie looks relieved and gives you a light punch in the arm. "Aw, little Luce is grown up!"

You grab a pillow and sock her with it, but she tugs you onto your bed and you lie beside each other.

"I wish I were staying for more than a couple nights," Frannie says into the now quiet room.

"No you don't," you say with a scoff, "You'd kill Mom and Dad."

"Well… yeah. I mean, I wish I could hang out with you for more than these two nights."

You know she can't see you, but you still nod in agreement.

"When I decide to not bounce all over the place," Frannie says, rolling to her side and propping her head up on her hand to look at you, "you should come visit. Get out of here for a bit. It's easier to breathe out there, Lucy Q."

You hum in agreement. "I'd like that."

* * *

 **17.**

Puck decided to host the New Year's Eve party. Despite his recklessness, he planned it so no one would have to drive drunk. You assume this is because his dad goes through bouts of drinking heavily, and that his dad had his license suspended for a year because he got two DUIs. You know he doesn't like to talk about it, so you never ask.

The party is overwhelmingly glee club members and friends of glee, and the tone is lighter—carefree, and Puck seems happy, watching a bunch of glee kids do stupid things as they consume vast quantities of alcohol.

"You're a bad influence," you say, watching Artie pop a wheelie with a Solo cup in his mouth.

"Look," Puck says, feigning innocence, holding up his hands, "I don't believe in peer pressure."

You snort.

"I just think getting drunk and doing stupid shit is a lot of fun," he says with a shrug, "and I just think my friends should have fun too."

You laugh and shove his shoulder before sipping from your diet soda. You watch Brittany hop into Artie's lap, and he spins them around the room. Santana talks to one of the few jocks attending, and you see her pull every move she knows. Your gaze eventually shifts to Rachel, talking with Mercedes and Kurt as they look around the room. You assume they're gossiping, but you're happy to see their new friendship blooming.

At one point, you see Kurt look your way in your periphery. You casually glance over and see Rachel look over at you. You give her a small smile, and she bites back her own, before you watch Brittany hop onto the coffee table.

"She could break that table and it'd be worth it," Puck mumbles, taking a gulp of his beer, his eyes never leaving Brittany's dancing form as she pulls a few layers of clothes off.

"You're a pig."

"Oink. Oink," he says dully.

You don't know what to make of it when you see Finn try to walk casually over to Rachel. It's more awkward than usual, but he leans down and says something in her ear. She just nods, and he gives her a stupid, drunk smile. You wish there were something you could drink, but you know your liver will thank you in the New Year.

* * *

Santana presses her head against the window of her car as you drive her home. With your permit and the number of police officers your father knows from church, you wouldn't get in trouble for being the designated driver for a friend.

Santana complained that the party was boring, asking you to take her home a few minutes before midnight. You aren't sure what's her heartbroken lethargy or drunkenness. You agreed, saying bye to the group in general. You didn't say bye to Rachel as she spoke quietly in the corner with a drunk Finn.

"I'm surprised you're not ending the year with a bang," you say, turning the stereo up slightly to hear the gentle melody of some Bon Iver—Santana is obviously having a tough time.

"Har, har," she says flatly. "I haven't slept with him in a month."

"And Britt?"

"We… we're friends _without_ the benefits now."

"Why?"

"It's better with _feelings_ —according to Britts. So she said we should stop," she says with a sigh, fogging up the window.

"And how do you feel about that?"

She's silent for a moment before she mumbles, "It hurts, Q."

"I'm sorry. She makes you happy though. So… Maybe that means something?"

She laughs darkly, "All I know is that I hate everyone except her," she pauses and lolls her head to look at you, "Sometimes you're okay."

You scoff.

"It's all good until one of you thinks it means something," Santana mutters. "And if you tell anyone I have a soul, I'll kill you."

You laugh gently at this as she lets her head thud back against the window.

You offer to walk Santana up to her room, but she makes a remark about you wanting to take advantage of her and slaps your arm with a snort. You hand her the keys and wish her a happy New Year, to which she replies, "Yeah, whatever," before walking up her front steps and unlocking the front door. Once the door closes, you start your walk home.

* * *

You squint at the form leaned against your mother's parked car, the only light coming from an old-fashioned streetlight your parents had installed in the front yard. You grin when you see her straighten up and adjust her jacket as you get closer.

"Shouldn't you be safely at home?" you ask, stopping in front of Rachel.

She shrugs. "My dads are at a charity event in Columbus until morning."

You nod slowly, giving her an inquisitive look.

She laughs lightly, and you see her breath cling to the cold air. "And I wanted to wish you a Happy New Year sans the drunken company," she explains.

You smile, "Happy New Year to you, too… You want to come in?"

"Your parents are okay with me coming in so late?"

"My dad had some work party at a new hotel in Cincinnati, so they're crashing there tonight. Plus the two of them combined will have a point-9 alcohol level, so driving isn't an option," you say, pulling your house key out of your pocket.

Rachel nods. "Sure."

* * *

You climb the steps to your room, making sure not to spill any of the hot cocoa you made for you and Rachel. The rest of the house seems cold in comparison, but you enter your warm room and close your door with your foot. You see Rachel sitting up in your bed, the blankets up to her waist, and your scrapbook in her lap. She examines the page carefully in the dim light of the lamp nearby.

"The Fabrays are modest people," you joke, handing Rachel one of the mugs. You place yours on the bedside table as Rachel pulls back the covers to let you sit beside her.

"You're a pretty impressive person," Rachel says, bumping her shoulder into yours, examining the last page before closing it and placing it on the table on the other side of your bed.

You merely shrug, getting your own mug, placing your cool hands over the top to warm them up. "How is the New Year treating you?"

"I'm not so sure yet," Rachel says, tracing her finger on the rim of the mug before lifting it to her lips and blowing on it.

"No breathless midnight kiss to remember for the ages?" you tease, sipping your cocoa.

Rachel presses her lips together, then shakes her head before drinking.

You watch her and wait for an explanation.

"Finn and I are… we've been on a break," she cringes, "I never wanted to be one of those people who said that," she says, mostly to herself. "I mean, we've only been together for a month. We both agreed we need to reevaluate what we want out of our relationship, I guess."

You raise an eyebrow. "You don't strike me as the kind to guess."

She rolls her eyes at you. "I'm figuring it out," she says, drinking from her mug, then placing it on the table. "Besides. He drank too much and ended up throwing up a minute before midnight. No one wants to start a new year with puke breath," she says with a sad sort of chuckle.

"Yeah," you say with a half-grin, "but I don't think anyone's New Year started off great… except maybe Artie and Britt."

"That's still weird to me," Rachel mumbles.

You laugh lightly, watching her fiddle with the blanket as you put your mug down. You take her left hand and put it in your lap, then pull the small button on her watch.

"What are you doing?"

You set her watch back to 11:59. "Redo?"

Rachel laughs. "You can control time too, huh?"

"Yes. It's one of my greatest talents," you say as she laces her fingers with yours.

You can only hear the hum of the house, your breathing, and the faint ticking of her watch. Her thumb traces yours gently as the seconds hand approaches twelve.

"Three… Two…" Rachel counts softly.

You don't let her reach one. You silence her with your lips, pressed gently but surely against hers. You pull back slightly, and you watch her blink her eyes open.

"Happy New Year, Rachel," you say, giving her hand a squeeze.

"Happy New Year."

She leans toward you and places a kiss at the corner of your mouth, and you think this all feels a lot like this idea you have about love. As she brushes her lips across yours, you ignore the fact that you're well into the New Year because it's all moving forward anyway and by the time you try to understand this all, it will already be history. Right now, you can taste the hot chocolate on her lips and feel her tongue graze yours.

You deepen the kiss, pulling her closer, running your hand up to her neck and cupping the side of her face, your thumb brushing her cheek. When your mouth moves to her jaw, then her pulse, her hands find the hem of your shirt to eagerly pull it off. You remove hers and admire the sight of her stomach, the faint outline of her abs before she lies back and pulls you on top of her.

Clothes continue to fall away and you find yourself grinding your hips against her leg, her doing the same to you. Your teeth bump and you both laugh at your sloppy kissing. Rachel sighs when you cup her breast and you suck on her neck. You thumb traces the underside of her breast before sweeping the tightening bud. You lips mark their way down her body, and her back arches when you take a nipple into your mouth.

You decide your favorite part of Rachel is her lungs—her voice, her sighs, her light gasps, her moans—they all bloom beautifully from her. You know this means something because you can feel her heartbeat under your lips as you place feather-light kisses between her breasts. You refuse to overthink this because so often your brain has betrayed your heart in the name of God, and you want this small death and a tiny piece of heaven with her. You're sure there is more holiness in Rachel's breath than there is in the Bible tucked in the drawer of your bedside table.

You skim your lips over hers before pulling away to look at her. She opens her eyes and runs her hand through your hair as you draw your hand down her stomach. You pause just below her bellybutton, and her abs tremble under your touch.

"Can I… Is this okay?" you whisper.

She nods, lightly grasping your wrist and guiding your hand down as she lifts her head to kiss you. You let your hand trail over her panties, and when you palm her, you feel her warmth and wetness through the fabric. She exhales through her nose heavily when you apply more force and suck lightly on her tongue. Her hips rise off the bed to meet your hand, and when her hand takes your wrist again, you pull away, wondering if you've done something wrong.

"Do you want me to stop?" you ask.

Rachel shakes her head. Instead, she moves your hand so it slips under the band of her panties. You hold your breath as you touch her soft flesh and when you slip your fingers through her wet folds, you let out a long breath as her eyes flutter closed. You glide your fingers up, and her hips cant when you rub the hood of her clit. You pull away from your kiss and just rest your head beside hers, closing your eyes as you feel her and listen to her quickening breaths.

When you enter her with a finger, a delicate moan escapes her, and between the sound of her moans and the feeling of being inside her, the throbbing between your legs grows.

You increase the pace when you feel more comfortable, and you rest your weight right so you can look briefly between your bodies. You groan at the sight of your hand, your finger sliding into her. Then you look at her flushed face, her bruised bottom lip between her teeth.

" _God_ ," you mumble, making Rachel open her eyes and look at you through hooded lids.

When you curl your finger and a high-pitched whine comes from Rachel's mouth, you silently thank your drunk self for doing mild research. But no research prepares you for the moment Rachel's hands skim over your trembling arms and to your back, fingernails marking your shoulder blades, and moaning, " _More_ ," breathlessly.

You enter her with another finger, but you're gentle when you feel her tighten briefly. She nods and lifts her hips again, and you continue at your previous pace. You move your hand so the heel of your hand rubs her clit each time you slide your fingers into her.

Her nails scrape along your back, her body tenses, and you hold her breath to hear her gasp.

" _Quinn_ ," she whimpers just before she lets out a small, strangled sigh, then a long moan as her body shakes beneath you. You pull your fingers from her and rub soft circles around her clit as she rides out her orgasm, and you're sure you could watch her—with her back arched, her lips parted, her heaving chest—for the rest of your life. The forever suggested by this thought strikes you, and you realize you're panting for air just as desperately.

Once she stops trembling, you roll to her side and try to calm your heartbeat. You shift in the bed enough so you're pressed against her side, and you draw patterns on her stomach with your fingertips. She lets out a breathy laugh and she slaps your hand away.

"I'm ticklish," she says, her voice almost raspy.

You hum, "I know."

She looks over at you, and her lips curve into a satisfied grin. You lean forward and kiss her shoulder. You rest your palm on the center of her chest, and things fall in time to the rhythm of her heartbeat. You close your eyes briefly, memorizing the feel of her skin. You open them as soon as Rachel rolls over to face you, brushing some hair from your face. She leans forward and kisses you. You know there so many things you should say, but words and naming these skipped heartbeats and held breaths aren't nearly as important as letting yourself feel them.

She pushes your shoulders lightly so you're lying on your back, and she hovers just above you. Before you can say anything, she whispers, "Let me."

You swallow down some nerves and nod, and she gives you a timid grin before kissing her way down your neck to your breasts.

She takes a nipple into her warm mouth, and you bite your lip. She waits for you to nod again when her hand find the band of your underwear. You do, and she helps you slip out of your panties. She pauses to look at you, and her expression is all wonder and reassuring smiles. She mumbles something about not being sure of what she's doing, but you simply kiss her deeply, tangling your fingers in her hair. Her hand soon relieves some of your aching, and you aren't thinking about sin or salvation or heaven or hell—you think about her voice and eyes and the way she says, "God, you're beautiful." But you are sure that you curse when she slips a finger inside you, and you're even more sure that you've never experienced anything more miraculous than her stroking you until your voice cracks over her name just before you let go and your body quakes.

You pull her close after, to anchor you because part of you feels like drifting away. You want to stay with her for a moment longer. You write _Stay_ with your finger along her arm, and as you start to fall asleep, you take the way she pulls the sheets up to cover the both of you as a promise that she will.


	12. Chapter 12

**At the Crossroads**

* * *

 **18.**

When you wake up, you take a moment before opening your eyes. You remember exactly where you are, who you're with, and you want to remember the feeling of her beside you, the warmth of her body in contrast to the cool sheets, the sound of her gentle breathing. This moment gets interrupted by your phone ringing. You shoot upright in bed and grab your phone from beside your bed.

"Hello?" you say, clearing the sleep from your voice.

"Quinnie, we're on our way home now. We should be back in an hour, but did you want us to pick up a coffee for you on our way home?" You breathe a sigh of relief, and watch Rachel begin to stir beside you.

"Um, sure. Could you make it two?" you ask. "One with soy milk."

"I hope you behaved yourself last night," she says, not necessarily accusingly, but warily.

"Yeah," you say, your face turning pink as Rachel blinks her eyes open and gives you a tired smile. "It was just snowing, so a friend from glee spent the night."

"Oh, well that was nice of you, Quinnie," she replies, sounding relieved. "See you soon then!"

You hang up before flopping back in bed with a sigh.

"So," Rachel says, clearing her throat, "your parents?"

You nod and open your eyes to look at her, "Yeah," you say, feeling suddenly shy in the morning light, "we should get dressed."

Rachel nods, but you watch her gaze travel the outline of your body beneath the sheets. You raise an eyebrow at her, and she blushes. "Well," she says, "we have a bit of time."

"To…"

"Don't play stupid," Rachel laughs, grabbing your pillow and pulling it out from under your head so it thuds against the mattress. "It's not flattering, Quinn Fabray."

Your laughter gets silenced by her lips on yours.

"Do you think," you say in between kisses, "we should… uh… talk?"

Rachel hovers above you briefly, an unreadable expression, biting her lip. She shakes her head and lets out a small laugh, "We don't have _that_ much time."

You nod, and you know you should start this New Year by being honest, but any words get lost when her mouth trails down to your breasts and takes a nipple into her mouth, sucking lightly.

All words melt into sighs and whispers of encouragement beneath the sheets.

* * *

You parents are pleasant to Rachel upon their arrival. You've both showered and changed, tidied up your room. Rachel waited by the door of the guest room when you made some adjustments. She didn't say anything as she stood there and watched you arrange the room as if it's been occupied.

Rachel is a perfect guest, and you can tell your parents are generally impressed by her manners. When your dad gets comfortable in the living room with his own coffee, probably nursing his hangover, you tell them you and Rachel are going to the basement to watch a movie.

There's a Lord of the Rings marathon on television, and Rachel starts laughing when you pause on the channel.

"Look, it's your people," you comment when the hobbits appear on screen.

She shoves you away by your shoulder, but chuckles despite herself.

"What do you want to watch?" you ask, situating yourself closer to her as you flip through some more channels.

You feel her shrug beside you.

"Rachel Berry doesn't have an opinion?"

She scoffs, taking the remote from you. She stops on an action movie on TNT, then places the remote on the coffee table.

"Why are we watching this?" you ask, raising an eyebrow.

She rolls her eyes and pulls you by your shirt so you're almost on top of her.

"Oh."

She laughs lightly, lifting her head to kiss the tip of your nose. "Sometimes I wonder how you're at the top of the class."

"There's a joke in there…"

She silences you with a kiss that you eagerly deepen. You can hear the faint sounds of cars racing across highways and plans being barked by the heroes and villains, but it fades away to the softer sounds of Rachel's breath and occasional hum and chuckle as you both run your hands along each other's arms and slip them under each others' shirts to trace patterns across each other's backs and stomachs.

* * *

You walk into the kitchen to get a bottle of water while Rachel uses the bathroom. Your father is on the phone, using his assertive business voice that carries throughout the entire house.

You flip through the pile of mail as you sip your water, mindlessly opening one of the magazines and scanning a few articles.

"It's the principle of it all, Stewart!" you hear your father say. You roll your eyes, used to this obnoxiously masculine means of communication. "If they want to be big dogs, they have to stop playing with the puppies… It _is_ personal because it's business."

You hear him grumble a few closing comments as your mother walks in with a sigh—the typical way she begins to make an afternoon drink. She opens her mouth to say something to you, but your father storms in and practically throws his cellphone onto the kitchen table.

"These damn pansies want to tell me how to manage sponsorships!" he practically yells.

" _Dad_ ," you say in hopes to make him lower his voice.

"Judes, they have these young hot-shots coming into _my_ department, asking _me_ for corporate funds, and I'm being called 'too tight-fisted' because I won't let our business get slandered by a bunch of queers using our money. It's just like what Beck was talking—"

" _Dad_! Stop!" You surprise yourself with how loud your voice sounds in the kitchen. Your mother's hand is still wrapped around her empty glass, and she looks at you with wide eyes. Your father, however, doesn't look pleased. You realize he's waiting for an explanation, and you hold the side of the counter to keep from trembling under his gaze.

"We have company, Russel," your mother says quietly, clearing her throat and busying herself with her drink.

"And this is my house," he says sternly in response, but he never looks away from you. He walks over to you, and stands over you. You remember the time little Lucy said she would never marry a boy because boys were gross and that she'd much rather marry her friend Maggie. Your father made you confess and pray for forgiveness, made you repeat scripture until the idea of marriage became clear to you at seven years old—man and woman. "I raised you to respect your parents, my word, _God's_ word. I know how to run my business _and_ my household."

"I'm sorry," you say quietly.

"Is there something you want to tell me?"

You shake your head, "No, Sir."

"It's that liberal school you're at," he says with a sympathetic sigh, walking over to the liquor cabinet to pull out his scotch. "Should've sent you to St. Mary's," he adds, mostly to himself, as he shakes his head. "Wouldn't have a bunch of sinners teaching my daughter there."

You don't say anything. "McKinley is a good school, Daddy," you say carefully, "I promise I'm doing my best."

"We know, Quinnie," your mother adds encouragingly.

Your father raises his glass and nods, "You know I care about you, sweetheart. We're Fabrays," he says, taking a drink, "and Fabrays are nothing short of perfect. I want what's best for you."

You nod. "I know. Thank you."

You hear the door in the hallway by the foyer open, and you wonder how long Rachel waited in the bathroom.

"We're going to go for a walk," you say, focusing your gaze on the water bottle as you put the cap on, "but I'll be home soon."

"Okay, bundle up, dear," your mother says, carrying her drink with her to the living room.

You meet Rachel in the hallway. "Ready?"

She nods, giving you a small smile in return.

It's cold, and the town is quiet as everyone sleeps in and recovers from their New Year's celebrations. You can hear the sound of water dripping from icicles and melting snow falling from the trees as you walk alongside Rachel.

"Sorry," you say, breaking the silence about a block from your house.

"Don't be," she says, knowing what you're referring to.

"He's…" you sigh, unwilling to excuse his bigotry, "He's my dad, and I'm a Fabray," you say with a shrug. You don't know how to really explain it because you've never had friends you felt you needed to protect from your family before.

"You're Quinn," Rachel says.

You smile appreciatively but say nothing. You let the sunlight comfort you as you continue walking for another couple of blocks to Rachel's neighborhood of smaller, quaint homes.

Rachel doesn't say anything, but the quiet of the moment is easy—unlike the burdensome silence of the dinner table. For the next ten minutes, you don't say much, not until Rachel gently bumps your shoulder with her own. "Thanks for walking with me," Rachel says as you walk her to her front porch.

"You're welcome," you say, grinning at how cute Rachel looks with her gloves and hat on.

"Ready for school in a couple of days?" Rachel asks.

"Not really… I'm still struggling with Pre-Calc," you say, giving Rachel a smirk.

"I think I know a good tutor," Rachel says with a bright smile.

You give the street a quick look, and when there's no sign of life other than your breath in the cold air, you lean down and press your lips to Rachel's for a kiss. You let it last long enough to feel her smile in the kiss, and you pull away with a sort of shy grin.

"Happy New Year," you say.

"You too, Quinn," she says, opening the front door as you make your way down the porch steps.

She gives you a small wave before closing the door, and you smile at the ground as you take your time walking back to your house.

* * *

 **19.**

School picks up where it left off. You hardly speak to Rachel during school, but you watch her rehearse and she makes you sing with her on occasion. It doesn't take much to twist your arm—all she has to do is that pout, and you're staring at her mouth soon enough. She'll only let you kiss her briefly, but then pulls away until you sing in "your modest, sultry mezzo alto voice."

Unlike last semester, however, you find yourself staying over Rachel's more often. You'll tell your mother that you're going to Santana's or Brittany's after practice, but Santana drops you off at home and you hardly cross through the door to toss your Cheerios bag in the foyer and call out that you'll be home later or the next day. Then you make the twelve-minute walk to Rachel's. (You timed it and told Rachel that she's rubbing off on you, which resulted in a very un-Rachel-Berry-like joke that caught you so off guard you felt your whole face and neck flush. Rachel found this hilarious and kissed your warm cheeks.)

There's a routine to it now, but unlike the Fabray traditions, you don't mind this. Rachel's fathers always greet you with a smile, and if they're not out seeing a movie or getting dinner for the two of them, they cook dinner. They find your etiquette school manners absurd, but charming, and they embarrass Rachel by telling stories or jokes throughout the meal. You always insist on helping clear the table and put the dishes away, but they shoo you and Rachel away to watch a movie. They leave you two alone, so you spend the length of the movie kissing. Sometimes Rachel refuses because she insists you need to increase your knowledge of famous musicals and movie stars with a background in theater. You'll roll your eyes, but you find that you don't mind sitting beside her and holding her hand or putting your arm around her.

At the end of the night, however, you've realized that you really appreciate her adamant rehearsing and obsession with musicals because the soundproofing works to your advantage. You both remain relatively quiet, but you've found ways to hear Rachel moan your name and gasp, and you enjoy knowing you can inspire those sounds.

Sunday mornings, Rachel's dads always go play squash with a couple of friends, then get an afternoon brunch. One morning, with flour on her cheek and the tip of her tongue stuck out as she focuses on stirring the pancake mix, you discover how normal it all seems—that somehow Rachel Berry has made your Sundays more holy. It makes your stomach flip, and you try not to look at the clock as it counts down until the time you have to go to mass.

Your parents aren't pleased with your insistence on going to a later mass. They enjoy having a drink at the country club by late morning, so they prefer the nine o'clock mass. More often than not, they wait until you return home and passively insist on the car ride that the earlier mass times bring in "better Catholics." On some occasions, they'll go in the morning and tell you to attend the 11 o'clock by yourself. You go every week because you know they'll ask your opinion of the morning's homily.

They've hinted at their skepticism—"all the time you're spending with those friends of yours," but you do your best to roll your eyes and say, "That's what you do with friends—hang out." Your parents have seen Santana and Brittany, and you're sure that either the way Santana looks at Brittany or Brittany's fearless display of sexuality has made your parents toss in a couple of prayers for you.

And now you're standing in church beside your parents—your father especially stolid today—and you're trying not to smile as you recall Rachel's expression after throwing flour at her while making breakfast. It ended up being a total mess, but you cleaned it up and kissed against the counter as it cooked.

"Lift up your hearts," the priest says, his voice faintly echoing throughout the church.

"We lift them up to the Lord," you say, hearing your father's proud, declarative voice, and your mother's modest, but genuine response.

Your father leans slightly toward you, "Stop smiling like that and pay attention."

You look at him with a straight face and murmur an apology.

"Church is not for daydreaming," he says in a low voice. "God's forgiveness isn't just handed out, especially if your mind is not with Him as you are in the presence of the Word of God."

You apologize again.

"Let us give thanks to the Lord, our God," says the priest.

You join in with the rest of the congregation, "It is right and just."

* * *

You walk down the hall, dodging a football being tossed back and forth between a couple meatheads, and stop at your locker to grab your history books. The annoying sound of Jacob Ben Israel's voice passes, and while you've become skilled at ignoring his presence, what he's saying catches your ear.

"The New Year is well on its way, and Rachel Berry—future Broadway star of McKinley—is still on the market, but who knows for how long? Word is that Head Quarterback Finn Hudson might try to win her back, just in time for the Valentine's Day dance."

You've been ignoring the signs hanging around the school, stupidly named _Cupid's Ball_ , which the hockey team has already vandalized so all the signs now read _Cupid's Balls_. You roll your eyes, but when you look across the hall and see Finn smiling at Rachel, you clench your jaw when you see him scratch the back of his neck nervously and say something with a look of hope.

You slam your locker shut and walk to class as if you didn't see anything.

XOXOXOXOXOOXOX

You're lying in Rachel's bed, "studying," when Rachel hums and pulls away.

"What?"

"I think we should talk," Rachel says, and your chest tightens because you haven't prepared for this conversation.

"Okay," you say, watching her sit up and purse her lips as she thinks. You sit up as well, and you feel awkward in your own body.

"This…" Rachel pauses and bites her bottom lip, "I think… Well, I mean…" you wait, holding your breath, "Finn asked me to get back together with him."

You exhale and grin, but when she doesn't say that she told him no, you feel your face tighten as you nod. "What did you say?"

"Um," Rachel won't look at you, and your stomach churns, "I said I wasn't sure." She finally looks at you, and you shrug, unsure of how to respond.

You know this is the part where you're supposed to confess that you want to be with her, that you'll give her the relationship she needs, but it would all be a lie. You feel small, sifting through your thoughts for any semblance of confidence, but you only come up with reasons why you couldn't possibly give Rachel false hope. What could you give her with a family you can't be honest with, your Catholic guilt, and an image as a Fabray and Head Cheerio? A relationship surrounded by paranoia and secrecy? There's no kind way to ask her to wait for a day that may never come. You hate Lucy's hold on you—the part that still yearns for approval from your family. Rachel's a star—she's meant to shine, and so is the love she's supposed to have. Here she is, drawing a line in the sand, and you're stuck in the mud on the other side.

"You're not sure," you repeat in a voice that doesn't sound like your own.

"I want to be friends, and… he asked me to Cupid's Ball… as a friend."

You sit back against her bedframe, looking straight ahead, "You said yes."

Rachel doesn't say anything, and you're not sure how to continue.

"Well, that's great you have a date," you say without much enthusiasm.

"That's all you have to say?"

You clench your jaw and look at her, "What else can I say?" you ask sharply.

Rachel laughs darkly, "Really?"

"Really," you say, standing up from her bed. "Why not just say yes to dating again?" you say, picking up your book from the floor and shoving it in your backpack.

"I said I wasn't sure," Rachel says, frowning as she moves to the edge of the bed and watches you pack more of your things.

"What's there to be unsure about? He's captain of the football team, an ideal boyfriend to have on your arm in school," you say, zipping your bag.

"Quinn—"

"What? I'm giving you my blessing," you say with a sneer.

A crease forms between Rachel's eyebrows and she huffs. "If I go out with Finn, then… then I don't think I could do this anymore."

"Fine. That's up to you," you say, pulling on your Cheerios jacket and slinging your bag over your shoulder.

You don't give her a chance to respond; you just turn and open her door and walk quickly down the steps, tossing as pleasant of a goodbye as you can manage to her dads before walking out the door.


	13. Chapter 13

**At the Crossroads**

* * *

 **20.**

It's been two days of silence between you and Rachel, so, predictably, Santana inquires, " _What's up your ass and sideways?_ " You ignore it and ask what she's doing for the ball, and she laughs and tells you she intends on going stag to steal someone else's date. She informs you that a few Cheerios are going as a group, but you don't ask to join; Santana has always been more of the group than you.

The glee club is, of course, doing two weeks of love songs leading up to the Cupid's Ball. Schuester encouraged the group to "spread the love," which only led Puck to making obscene hip movements.

You're poking at your pathetic salad in the cafeteria, ignoring the obnoxious complaining from one of the other Cheerios when Artie rolls in with an amp on his lap, followed by Puck in sunglasses, his mohawk gelled, and a guitar strapped to his front. Some freshmen girls clap, making Puck drop his shades down his nose to give them a wink. You roll your eyes and Santana starts to laugh in the "what a fucking loser" way.

Some freshman from band runs in with a microphone and sets it up for Puck at the front of the cafeteria. You glance over at the glee table and see Finn laughing and clapping at the sight. Beside him sits a grinning Rachel.

"Call it a Hallmark holiday all you want," Puck says into the microphone, "but February's for lovin'."

He makes eye contact with you and gives you a smirk before he opens with the all too familiar chords of "You Make My Dreams." The cafeteria cheers him on, and you're impressed by Puck's nerve, risking a student revolt against his involvement in glee club. Near the end of the song, more band geeks enter the cafeteria with pink and red carnations, handing them out to girls. But when the song ends, a freshman hands Puck a half-dozen red roses.

Puck waits for the applause to end and adjusts the guitar so it hangs behind him. "Quinn Fabray?" the silence of the cafeteria is deafening as everyone follows his gaze to you, "Will you go to Cupid's Ball with me?"

Everyone waits, and you don't bother to look around because you're sure the one person whose opinion you care about is looking. You stand up and walk over up to Puck at the front of the room, and you hear someone whisper, "Do you think she might slap him?" You're glad you're seen as rather unpredictable.

You take the roses, turn to the mic and look out at the room, "Yes."

Puck wraps you into a hug, and as he spins you, you whisper in his ear, "I'm going to fucking punch you."

He laughs in response and puts you down with his stupid smirk on his face, "Whatever you're into, babe."

You shove him by the chest as people whistle and hoot. Someone shouts, "Make out!"

Puck takes the mic and replies, "I'm a gentleman."

The general scoff from half the student body makes him give everyone the finger.

You roll your eyes and kiss Puck on the cheek, riling up the crowd again. When you part, you're beaming. If you could tell little Lucy that she'd have a date with one of the most popular guys in school and have a large number of students envying you, she'd never believe it.

* * *

You don't really know what got into you, but you find yourself on her front porch. You decide not to think too much more about it and press the doorbell. It's Friday night, only eight o'clock, but Rachel opens the door in plaid pajama bottoms and a tank-top. The warm air from the house smells like popcorn.

"Hey," you say, shifting on your feet.

"Hey," Rachel says quietly.

"Can we talk?"

Rachel nods and steps to the side to let you in. You take off your shoes, not wanting to drag the sidewalk salt and dirt and snow into the clean Berry household.

"Dad, Daddy? Quinn's here. We're going to go over a project for a second," Rachel calls. "Keep the movie going."

"Okay, hon!" Hiram calls back.

"You're both squares," LeRoy adds.

You grin at this and follow Rachel up to her room. You enter first as she shuts the door quietly behind her.

"I'm sorry for how I acted," you say, trying not to rush it as if you've been rehearsing it for the past hour. "You should do whatever you want. I don't really have a say."

Rachel nods, looking down at her hands. "You're one of my best friends, Quinn," she says slightly above a whisper, then shrugs, "I care about your opinion."

"But you shouldn't. Not with this anyway," you explain, "If you want to be with Finn, then you should be. If not, that's okay too. Our whole… arrangement can stop whenever… or be amended." You swallow uneasily and you wait for Rachel to say something.

She looks at you with an unreadable expression. "I told Finn I haven't made up my mind," she says, walking over and taking a seat on the edge of her bed, "which sounds stupid and selfish, but I just want time to think about what I want. If Finn is really someone I can commit to."

You nod and sit beside her.

"I'm sorry," she says, "for dragging you into this stupid drama I've concocted."

You laugh lightly, "It's okay. I was just," you pause, trying to find another word besides 'jealous,' "frustrated with other things going on. I took it out on you."

Rachel smiles and puts her hand on yours. You smile sadly; she's always so quick to forgive you—so patient. You find you hand tucking some strands of hair behind her ear, and she leans into the touch.

"What are we right now?" Rachel asks.

You're closer now, and she doesn't pull away. "I guess… this?" You close the distance and press your lips to hers, and you almost smile when she returns it—a soft apology that she doesn't owe you.

"It's whatever we want it to be," you say before leaning in to kiss her again. You feel her smile against your lips, and you can feel your heart splitting in two—one anchored to your sinking stomach, another floating up with your breath.

* * *

Jacob Ben Israel runs. Literally runs at a speed you never thought imaginable. You returned to school to hear that Jacob's stupid podcast went viral around McKinley when he posted the weekend's "McKinley Round-Up," including a lunch you had with Puck to discuss a duet for a glee assignment. Somehow the lunch date got turned into "steamy foreplay" before "disappearing into Puck's truck."

You don't chase Jacob, but you smile at his fear. You know the football team already has plans with him and a port-o-potty for later.

"So, did you really sleep with Puck?" Santana says, appearing beside you at your locker.

You roll your eyes, "Are you kidding?"

She shrugs with a smirk, "Worth asking."

"No. We were talking about doing a glee assignment together. It's just fun to play games after that stupid cafeteria proposal crap," you say, pulling out your books for second period.

"It's also fun to play around in familiar territory," Santana suggests with a wiggle of her eyebrows.

You scoff, shutting your locker and making your way to class.

* * *

In study hall, Puck takes his seat next to you, his acoustic guitar in hand.

"It's okay; I didn't want to get work done anyway," you say sarcastically as Puck drops sheet music on top of your open notebook.

"It's our song, girl!"

You see Rachel walk into the cafeteria, and she looks frustrated. You know the auditorium had some lighting problems, so the technicians have occupied her normal rehearsal spot while the jazz band took over the chorus room. She glances your way, but Puck strums his guitar and leans in close to you.

"What d'you say, babe?"

You look down at the sheet music: "The Way You Make Me Feel." You're surprised it's not something dirty and suggestive. You nod, "Sounds good, but we're not rehearsing here."

"Aw, come on," Puck says, looking around the cafeteria, no doubt wanting to entertain the masses.

You notice some people looking at you and Puck, but they quickly pretend they're busy with their work when you make eye contact. "Later. Let me divide up the song for the two of us based on our vocal ranges," you explain, pushing Puck away from you.

"You got it," he says with a wink before sitting with some of his friends from the football team and showing off a bit by playing some cheesy songs on his guitar.

You see Rachel sitting by herself, and you almost go over and sit beside her, wondering what her opinion would be about covering Michael Jackson and any vocal adjustments she could suggest. But you don't. Not only do you hardly talk in school, but you don't think you could talk about this song you're planning on singing with Puck.

* * *

You're surprised, but not unhappy with the way Rachel pushes you onto her bed. Glee let out early, so there's an extra hour before her dads get home. You're used to Rachel shrugging you off and insisting on getting some work done before… other activities. You don't argue this though as Rachel parts only to take her shirt off. She unzips your Cheerios top to remove yours as well.

You know your lips are as bruised as hers when you part to catch your breath. You almost ask what's going on, but she interrupts your chance by pushing you back down on the bed and straddling your hips. You mindlessly lick your lips when you look down and see her lacy pink panties under the skirt riding up her waist.

For the first time since you've started this heated makeout session, obviously advancing toward more, Rachel hesitates and bites her bottom lip. You prop yourself up on your elbows, your chest heaving in your sports bra, which feels incredibly unsexy compared to Rachel's lace underwear. "Everything okay?"

She nods and leans down to kiss you, so you wrap your arms around her and pull her closer to you. She parts just enough to look at you, a shy smile crossing her face. "I want… I want to try something. If that's okay."

You raise an eyebrow. "Like…?"

Her face flushes as she bites her lip again. You grin and kiss her, encouraging her to be honest, that it's okay. You lightly scratch your nails along her back as she kisses a path down to your pulse point, then just below your ear.

You feel the heat rise in your own face when she whispers in your ear, lightly grinding into you, "I want to taste you."

A small sound escapes you and Rachel looks at you carefully. With her above you with her messy hair and swollen lips, which she licks nervously, you feel yourself nod because you can't imagine saying no when everything about Rachel says yes.

* * *

You're panting, and your hands are clenching Rachel's bed sheets as her tongue continues to move against your clit. If you could breathe right, you'd make a joke about Rachel's mouth possessing multiple talents, but you've lost complete control over your diaphragm—your body for that matter.

You groan at the sight of Rachel's head between your legs. You're definitely making sounds you've never made before, and when Rachel actually looks up at you, you shamelessly moan as your hips involuntarily cant to meet her mouth. She brings a hand to your stomach to keep you in place, and you swear her eyes light up and that she'd be smirking if her mouth weren't otherwise occupied.

When you come, you lose count of how many times you say her name, your hands lightly tugging at her hair as you shake and your back arches off the bed. You manage to slow the tremors and loosen your grasp on Rachel's hair. She places a small kiss to the inside of your thigh before she moves up your body and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand.

"Are you okay?" Rachel asks, brushing some hair from your sweaty forehead.

"G-good," you manage, the occasional tremble still going through you—aftershocks from this earthquake Rachel inspired, shifting your insides and settling so that your heart is left exposed.

Rachel gives you a small smile and you kiss her. You blush when you realize that the taste you don't recognize is you on her lips and tongue. She rolls to the side of you, skimming her fingers up and down the inside of your forearm.

Once you feel like your body isn't boneless, you turn to her and kiss her. You're trailing your fingers down to her lace underwear when she takes your hand. "I'm okay," she says, kissing your shoulder in a reassuring manner. You're not used to this, so you kind of lay there and look at the ceiling, feeling the bare skin of her stomach press against your arm with each inhale, then leave it slightly cold with each exhale, the warmth of her breath on your collarbone instead.

* * *

At some point, Rachel lends you some comfortable sweats and you both agree on a movie. She's quieter than usual, but you don't know how to ask or if it's your place to. She makes popcorn and you watch _Funny Face_ in silence. On occasion you'll only realize you're looking at her when she turns to you and gives you a small, almost shy, smile.

* * *

 **21.**

The glee club loves your acoustic rendition of "The Way You Make Me Feel" with Puck. Mr. Schuester applauds your performance, noting the incredible chemistry your duet had and claiming that you might be in the running for a duet at Regionals.

When you're packing your things to head out, you're surprised to look up and see Rachel's already gone.

* * *

The next day, after no response to your texts, you approach Rachel at her locker.

"Hey," you say quietly. You just watch her jaw clench as she digs through her locker for a book. "Are you okay?"

"Fine," Rachel says, putting on a forced smile—you know this because you've come to love the real ones she gives you. "No glee practice today, by the way," she says before turning and walking away.

* * *

The auditorium and the choir room are empty after school.

* * *

You push the steamed broccoli around your plate as your father continues his rant.

"I told George that the point of sending his son to Dartmouth wasn't for him to _find himself_ , or whatever that's supposed to mean," he says before taking a bite of his chicken and chewing aggressively, "Damn shame. Worst decision of that kid's life… leading a life like that."

There's a brief moment of silence, interrupted only by, "It's not a choice." It's so fragile and quiet, you wonder if it even came from you—if it was just a loud thought echoing in your mind.

You know your father heard because he stops chewing for a moment. Once he swallows his modest mouthful, he clears his throat and dabs his pursed lips with his napkin before looking at you. "Who told you that?"

"No one, really," you say; your voice is clearer, but it sounds so weak in comparison. You continue anyway, "I don't think anyone would choose to be hated."

"That's what the liberals are turning this into," your father says, pointing his fork at you. He turns his focus back to his plate, letting out a sardonic chortle, "They think they can convince people it's all about _love_ ," he takes a sip of his bourbon and looks at you again; you feel small under his gaze, "At best, it's a perversion of the mind, Q. You remember that. Whatever those so-called teachers are saying in your social studies courses, they don't realize that family tradition is what made this country the way it is today."

Your mouth is dry, and anything else you could think of saying gets caught in your throat. You merely nod and drink your water.

* * *

People move out of your way as you walk down the hallway on a mission; no one, especially Rachel Berry, gives you the silent treatment without an explanation. You see her at her locker and when you make eye contact, she quickly becomes busy with something in her locker.

"What's going on?" you say abruptly, stopping beside her locker with your arms crossed.

More students are filtering into the school and starting to head to homeroom, so you know you can get away with quiet conversation while everyone's distracted.

"Nothing," Rachel says, avoiding your gaze and shrugging.  
You're about to inquire more when you feel an arm wrap around you and a mohawk appears between you and Rachel.

"Well if it isn't my favorite Catholic and my favorite lady Jew," Puck says with a smirk, looking at Rachel, then you.

"Fuck off, Puck," you say, shrugging off his arm.

"I love when you're all angry," he says, giving you a wink, "Still on for later?"

"Yeah," you say, waving him off, "just go away, Puck."

"You're not going to fight Rachel, right?" he asks, looking between the two of you warily, "I mean, I have to protect my own…"

You roll your eyes, "I'm going to kick you in the nuts so hard that you're going to have to explain to your future wife why you can't have kids."

"Not if it's you, babe." He sneaks a quick peck on the cheek and laughs before running off to homeroom to avoid another detention.

Rachel slams her locker shut and turns to head to her own classroom, but you gently take her wrist, "Look, I just want to talk to you."

"There's nothing to talk about," Rachel says, finally facing you so you can see the tense muscles of her jaw to match her voice.

"Apparently there is."

"I've just got a lot going on, and so do you."

"Well, yeah. That's how it's always been…"

"But now that I'm considering getting back together with Finn, and you're apparently with Puck—"

"Is that what this is?" You laugh with disbelief, "You can't be serious."

Rachel's face flushes and she turns to storm off.

"Don't walk away from me, Rachel," you say harshly, grabbing her arm to turn her around, not as patient this time.

"Don't touch me, Quinn," she says, shaking her arm from your grasp.

"Look, I'm totally willing to talk to you about whatever your issue is about Finnocence and us," you say in a harsh whisper as a few eyes linger on their way by, "But you're not allowed to be upset about whatever the hell I'm doing. Remember? Casual. Nothing more."

Rachel lets out a sarcastic laugh, "Really? Because last time I checked, _casual_ didn't mean you make breakfast the morning after, or kiss me on New Years, or kiss me goodbye on Sunday mornings, or stay around to watch mov—"

"You have no idea what you're talking about," you say, but you know exactly what she means. You've let this turn into a mess. "Just because I treat you like a friend doesn't mean it's not casual. We're _friends_ with benefits."

"You know, you keep saying 'casual,' as if it will make what this is between us mean nothing."

"That was the agreement, Rachel!"

"Fine. Starting right now, we aren't _friends_ ," her eyes practically glint in the light of the hallway, "We are completely casual about this. We don't talk or spend time together. If you talk to me, we don't hook up that day. Talking will only involve arranging a time and place."

"Wait, Rachel," you say, shaking your head.

"You are so set on the rules of this arrangement, I'm making more definitive ones. If you want casual, you'll get it. And we'll figure out how you really feel about all this."

Your blood is boiling, hearing her throw your words back in your face.

"Fine. No skin off my back," you say coolly with a shrug. With your final comment, you turn on your heel and walk away with what you hope appears to be nonchalance.

* * *

You danced with Puck a bit at the ball, but you spent most of it with Rachel in your periphery. She seemed to have a great time, her focus entirely on Finn. Finn's hopeful expression made you want to slap him, but Fabrays show self-restraint.

Now you're in Puck's car, parked in the woods by the school, and it would all be quite romantic with the stars and the sound of the crickets if you were actually thinking of him as you kiss him. The center counsel is digging into your ribs though, and Puck is kissing you with more aggression than you're used to with Rachel. You wonder if Finn and Rachel are parked somewhere together, but you shove the thought from your mind and pull away from Puck.

You smile at his confused expression before opening the door and saying, "Back seat's more comfortable."

Puck's grin is childish as he all but runs to join you.

You start unbuttoning his shirt, his jacket shed earlier in the night, as his hands search for the bottom of your dress. He awkwardly removes his shirt and undershirt in the small amount of space the car provides, and you busy yourself with unzipping your dress and pushing it down past your waist and leaving it on what you hope is a clean car floor. You find each other's mouths in the dim lighting, and you push him until he's lying down with you straddling his lap.

When you pull away and grind into him, you watch his eyebrows furrow as he looks at you. You try to ignore the way your hands are shaking as you fumble with his belt, and you can't get your bottom lip to stop trembling.

 _Rachel didn't look at me once._

 _She hasn't spoken to me in days._

 _I ruined everything._

Suddenly Puck's hands are on yours, pausing your movements.

"Quinn," he says gently.

You look up at him and his look of concern breaks the dam in your chest—your whole body starts shaking and you're gasping for air as tears fall down your cheeks.

Puck sits up and pulls you into a hug, "Hey, Q. It's okay. We don't have to do anything," he says, his hands stroking your neck and back.

You hold him tightly to ground yourself, focus on the faint scent of his cologne and a bit of sweat—it's familiar and more comforting than you would have ever expected.

After a few minutes, you can hear the crickets over your heartbeat and you find your voice and whisper a "thank you" as you end the tight embrace.

Puck looks at you with a half-smile, shrugging as he says, "Nah. It's cool." His eyes never leave your face as you wipe under your eyes, and you figure he understands you don't really want to talk about it. "I have an idea."

You raise an eyebrow at him and he picks your dress up off the floor and hands it to you.

"Your parents think you're at Santana's, right?" he asks, pulling on his undershirt.

You nod, still unsure of his plans.

"Trust me."

With how your night has gone, you figure you owe him this.

* * *

The "idea" ends up being two pints of Evan Williams. Luckily, Puck brought a couple bottles of Coke as chasers.

He dropped off his mom's car in the driveway and traded it for his dad's old pick-up truck. He drove down a gravel road a few blocks from his house into an overgrown field with the exception of paths carved by quads and other trucks. You know he did this intentionally so you could both walk back to his place later.

He put a couple of old mats down in the bed of the truck and a blanket on top as you slipped out of your dress and into a pair of his gym shorts and a t-shirt.

When you walk around to the back, where Puck is adjusting the volume on a small stereo–80s music playing lightly, he turns around and laughs at the sight of you—you look like a kid playing dress-up. Puck helps you up and you both get settled, leaning your backs against the cool metal and glass of the front. You take the pint of Evan Williams and bottle of Coke Puck hands you.

You look up at the sky, and you appreciate the fact that so many of the stars are visible, away from the gas station lights and streetlights of suburbia.

You clink your bottle of bourbon against his before taking a swig, and you cough after swallowing. "This tastes like… like…"

"Lighter fluid," Puck finishes for you, seemingly unfazed but opening his bottle of Coke and taking a sip.

You drink your own cola greedily and sigh when it dilutes the burning taste. "How'd you get this anyway?" you ask.

Puck takes a big gulp of bourbon. "My pops gets this stuff wholesale," he explains, holding his bottle up to the moonlight to see how much ground he's already covered, "and I always snag a few bottles a couple days after he buys it. He's too drunk by then to realize if any went missing."

You know Puck's dad drinks, but you don't know what to say in response. It's not like you can relate your parents' drinking to his—your parents get drunk at a country club, where it's the side effect of the socially elite; Puck's dad works an assembly line during the winter and cleans pools in the summer, getting drunk in his garage on a beat up couch in front of an old TV. You'd never pretend to understand Puck's life.

"He's not so bad," Puck seems to say to the night sky, taking another swig of bourbon, "He made some stupid decisions drunk, but he never hurt me. He'll argue of course," he explains with a shrug, "but my mom puts him in his place. He just grumbles and sleeps on the couch. He's a sloppy drunk, for sure, but not a violent one."

You nod, drinking from your bourbon and cringing. "Does he drink often?"

Puck shakes his head, "Not nearly as often. After going to AA after his DUIs he drinks the hard stuff during the change of seasons; he hates the assembly line gig."

In the gap of silence, you realize Puck is telling you this so you don't have to talk—so you don't feel like you're alone with your worries.

Puck turns to you, "We're better than our parents, you know."

You let out a breathy laugh, take another drink, then add, "I hope so."

"We're stupid kids, but we have plenty of time to grow up."

"Cheers to that," you say with a grin, which he returns.

Puck taps his bottle against yours and you both do another shot. Your stomach is warm and your head is the right kind of fuzzy, so you lean your head against his shoulder and close your eyes and listen to the night around you, committing it to memory so you can recall the calm when you need it in the future.

* * *

You're fairly convinced you're still hungover when you arrive at school on Monday. Your parents didn't ask questions when you spent most of your weekend in bed. You know they'd rather turn a blind eye to the faults they themselves possess.

"Hey there, Sunshine," Puck says with a knowing smile, appearing beside you as you head to your first class.

"I'm never drinking with you again," you tell him.

"Everyone says that," Puck says, chuckling lightly. "The trick is to go on a run when you're still drunk, sweat out the booze, drink a liter of Gatorade, and you pop up like a daisy."

"I'll keep that in mind next time."

" _Next time_ , huh?"

"Next time I drink, no next time with you."

Puck gives you a wink, "It's cool, babe," he gives you an obnoxious kiss on the cheek with a "mwah!" and puts his arm around you, "Don't worry; it's just to please the crowds," he says, nodding to the side of the hallway where a group of freshmen look on.

You glare at Puck, but he just gives you a smug grin before jogging to his own class and tossing a "Later, babe," over his shoulder.

When you look down the hall, you see Rachel walk into class with her head down.

* * *

Your head thuds almost painfully against the door of Rachel's bedroom. Her teeth drag along your neck as her hands slip under your Cheerio's skirt. You haven't said a word to one another since you showed up upon Rachel's text message that read, simply, _Come over_.

You moan as her fingers slip inside you and find your g-spot, the heel of her hand applying pressure to your clit. Your forehead rests on her shoulder as she fucks you against the door, her warm breath against your ear.

You don't let yourself say her name, instead letting your teeth press into her shoulder to stifle whatever words could slip out.

* * *

You get dressed in silence, and you can already feel how sore you'll be tomorrow. When you turn around, Rachel's already dressed. She doesn't say anything as she walks by you and just opens her bedroom door.

You see yourself out, and you wait until you're a block away before you let out a single sob, then silently cry on your walk home. You calm your breathing and take out your phone.

 _Can I come by?_

A quick response: _Course. I'm playing Resident Evil. We can watch a movie though._

You laugh, and send him another text: _Shooting zombies sounds great._

You check your appearance in the car window before going inside. You don't leave the foyer and call out, "Hey, Mom? Can I get a ride to Noah's?"


	14. Chapter 14

**At the Crossroads**

* * *

 **22.**

You passed your driver's test with flying colors, but you're fairly confident it's mostly because the guy in the passenger's seat had his eyes on you more than the road. Having your license has made it easier for your spontaneous trips to Rachel's or Puck's, but that's been about the only thing that's been easy lately.

The whole glee club can tell something is off; Rachel is more blunt and bossy, and you're snide comments mumbled from the back row are making Santana seem like a cuddly kitten. Everyone thinks you're just on a power-trip, and Puck had asked if you were on your period at one point, which resulted in a really harsh glare and Mercedes smacking him with a notebook. After glee that day, he sent you a text apologizing, a photo of him pouting, then asked if you wanted to join him for some zombie-killing. You forgave him, and you appreciated that he didn't ask anymore about your moods in school.

You're studying for a Spanish test with Mercedes when you realize she's watching you as you copy some vocabulary onto some index cards.

"What?" you ask, meeting her gaze and quirking an eyebrow.

"What's going on in that head of yours, Fabray?" she asks, squinting her eyes at you with suspicion. It's light, almost teasing, so you don't feel very threatened by it.

"Spanish," you say with a grin.

"I mean in general. You seem tense lately," she says carefully.

"Just a lot going on," you say, trying to shrug it off.

Before she can inquire anymore, you suggest you both practice conversing in Spanish to prepare for the oral part of the exam. She gives you a questioning look, but simply nods in agreement.

* * *

When you see Finn kiss Rachel at her locker before going into homeroom, you walk into the nearest bathroom and slam one of the stall doors repeatedly until you've gotten most of your frustration out.

* * *

A week into the "Finchel" rekindled romance, as Jacob reports, there's rumors of them sleeping together. You want to ask Puck if there's been word in the locker room, but you know that would give you away.

Santana snaps her fingers in front of your face, "Q, you're being a shitty friend right now," she says as you turn your attention to her, away from Finn and Rachel kissing in the hallway. She looks over her shoulder then back to you, "They're gross. You're like one of those rubberneckers on the highway. Stop looking at the car wreck and focus here."

"Sorry," you say, "What were you saying?"

Santana continues her rant about something in Cheerios, so luckily she interprets your rage upon seeing Rachel smile and peck Finn on the lips goodbye as taking her side on the matter.

* * *

You parents make you sit at the table despite your insistence that you're not hungry. You're exhausted and just want to be alone, but Fabray dinners aren't optional.

Your father compliments your mother's cooking and you nod in agreement, forcing down small bites of the meal. You sit in silence for another ten minutes when your father looks at you directly for a moment before asking how school is going.

"The same. All A's," you say with a shrug, "I'm just tired from Cheerios. Can I be excused? I'll take some of the leftover chicken for my salad tomorrow."

Your father shares a look with your mother, but she simply nods. You can't ignore the feeling of their eyes on you as you clear your plate and head up to your room.

* * *

You walk from Puck's. It's not the coldest, but the cool night air feels nice on your warm cheeks. You know you aren't walking in a very straight line, but Rachel had texted you while you were drinking more cheap bourbon with Puck, so you said you'd be there. Your head is swimming and you squint up at the streetlights, looking at them as if they're man-made haloes.

As soon as she opens the door, you pull her into a desperate kiss. You feel her stiffen with surprise before she kisses you back, pulling you into the house and closing the door with some difficulty as she continues to press her lips to yours.

You pull her shirt off right there in the foyer, and you can still taste the liquor on your tongue, but mixed with some of Rachel's fruity lip balm.

"My dads," Rachel says between your kisses as she pulls your jacket off, "they're going to be home sooner than I thought," she explains breathlessly.

You don't say anything. Instead, you take her by her arms and pin her against the front door. You suck on her neck as one of your hands slips under her shirt and finds her right breast, kneading through the thin fabric of her bra. You shove your other hand down into her skirt, but her tights limit your movement, pinning your wrist down. You practically grunt in frustration, so you pull your hand out and drop down to your knees.

Rachel's mouth opens, but she closes it and breathes heavily out of her nose. She goes to unzip her skirt, but you just pull her skirt up and tuck part of it into the waistband of it. You don't hesitate to run your hand over her warm core, over her tights and underwear. Her hips press into your hand, and because you know there's limited time, you don't bother teasing. You pull her tights and rip through them, pushing aside her underwear and immediately letting your tongue swipe through her folds. A moan escapes Rachel, her fingers tangled in your hair as you dive into a rigorous pace against her clit. You lightly suck the flesh and insert two fingers, quick to apply some pressure to her g-spot. She moans even louder, and you continue the fast pace you started with.

Rachel practically yells when she comes, her voice echoing in the foyer as she thrusts her hips toward your mouth, shaking as her orgasm rolls through her, a shuddering of her muscles spasming around your fingers.

When you stand from your position on your knees, wiping your hand on your jeans before pulling her into another kiss. It's slower this time, but you think of it as a 'goodnight' kind of kiss. You can tell Rachel's legs are still shaking as she adjusts her skirt. When she looks up, you hold her gaze—her eyes shining, catching light like her own personal haloes, like whatever she looks at could be something more holy—as you reach past her and turn the door knob; she moves out of the way, and you slip past her to start your walk home.

* * *

When Mr. Schuester calls on Rachel, she doesn't respond. Instead she slowly looks up from her book in her lap, asking him if he would mind repeating himself. The group looks at her like she's crazy because he asked if she had anything prepared for the group, and normally Rachel has an extensive repertoire prepared for any moment of any day. She simply shakes her head and says she hasn't prepared anything.

You swallow uneasily, wondering how much of this could be blamed on you. At this point, more and more people are noticing you and Rachel's strange behavior.

You watch Finn put his arm around Rachel, rubbing her shoulder to comfort her. She gives him a small smile, and you focus on reading your English assignment.

* * *

You're wrapped up in an oversized Dartmouth hoody you bought when visiting Frannie. You're eyes are still puffy from when you left Rachel's after bruising each other's lips and making one another come. It reminded you of confession—how you knew what you were doing wasn't right, that the sorrow was there, and the only option was to ask for forgiveness in the grace of your hands on her skin and your lips on hers—all desperation and a small glimmer of hope.

When Frannie's face appears on screen, you can tell the moment she sees your face because her smile quickly disappears.

"What's wrong, Lucy Q?"

You feel your bottom lip tremble, but you take a deep breath and manage to say, barely louder than a whisper, "Fran… I'm gay."

* * *

You watch as Finn runs his hand through his hair in frustration as he exchanges quiet but intense words with Rachel in the hallway. They're apparently on and off again, and Jacob's been reporting on Rachel's inability to commit to the quarterback. You hope Jacob isn't smart enough to trace the ISP addresses of his website's visitors.

Rachel storms off, leaving Finn to slam his locker shut, sulking his way to class.

* * *

You're reviewing Physics material with Mercedes to prepare for an upcoming test. You like working with her—it's calm and safe, so you're running through practice problems on your own before you check each other's work. You're in the middle of writing an equation on trajectory when Mercedes Mercedes closes her book on her notebook abruptly and does the same to yours.

"What—"

"Girl, you gotta spill," Mercedes demands, giving you a pointed look.

You roll your eyes and smile, "What conspiracy do you have now?"

"Something's up," she says, biting her bottom lip briefly before continuing, "and it has to do with you and Rachel."

You smile falters, but you force a laugh, "The only problem I have with Rachel is her terrible fashion sense."

Mercedes sighs, "I'm not going to judge you," she gives you a small smile, "I don't know quite what it's all about, but… I've seen the way you two look at each other—in glee and in school. And the past couple of weeks, you've both been looking like abandoned puppies."

You don't say anything, focusing your attention on a doodle you started mindlessly drawing on your notebook.

"I mentioned to Rachel that I liked studying with you, and she said you're a good study buddy—that you had been struggling with Pre-Calc," she says, raising an eyebrow.

"And?"

"Quinn," she says softly, putting her hand on yours to stop you from scratching more shapes onto your notebook, "you told me you were tutoring _her_ in Pre-Calc. That's why I asked you to help me with Spanish."

You look up at her and you're not quite sure how your expression reads, but Mercedes just lets out a gentle laugh, "Besides, we all know you don't need any tutoring."

You're silent for a while, but Mercedes calmness stops you from running and never coming back. You had told Frannie and cried, and your sister just assured you that she'll always be proud to have you as a sister and what kind of woman you're growing into, and how much she loves you. She gave you more reason to be brave, but the stress and sense of loss still remains. With this sense of bravery, you give Mercedes a timid and somewhat melancholy smile and confess, "I think I like her… I _really_ like her."

Mercedes practically snorts, "Girl, you are far from subtle," she says, patting your hand.

"It was this really unexpected thing, moving here, then meeting her," you find the words spilling from your mouth, "But I couldn't stay away from her, and now I think I fucked it all up," you conclude.

"That's what high school is about," she says with a shrug, "I think you can fix it. Even if it's not the same as before… maybe it can grow into something better, or at least something that works for the both of you."

"I have no idea what that could be. With my parents and the school… it's all too many external factors," you say, blinking the tears back as you hear your father's voice in your head, his casual remarks about the shame of homosexuality.

"Well, maybe you'll be able to figure out what's best."

"Maybe."

Mercedes gives your hand a little squeeze, and you appreciate the gesture. You don't feel panicked, like you need to make her swear to secrecy. Mercedes is the type of friend who doesn't need the details, just enough to know you'll be okay, and that's all you need in this moment.

* * *

You stand silently in the doorway of the choir room as Rachel warms up; she makes it seem so easy—as easy as breathing, which is something you can hardly do when you hear her voice dance over the notes with ease.

You quietly walk in, and you see her hands pause on the piano keys. You sit beside her on the piano bench, and you know she can tell it's you without even looking your way.

You're both silent as Rachel pulls her hands from the piano and rests them in her lap.

"We can't do this anymore, Rachel," you say, breaking the silence, all the fatigue you feel evident in your words, "This isn't what I wanted it to be."

Rachel licks her lips, and her voice suddenly seems less smooth—more broken—when she replies, "What do you want?"

"I want to survive… _this_ and the next two years," you say with a defeated shrug, "This is it for me, Rachel. I'm sixteen, and I've already made so many mistakes. It doesn't matter now because I'm _pretty_ and young… But the real world won't always be so forgiving to me."

"Quinn… you're a very pretty girl… the prettiest I've met," she says quietly, "But you're a lot more than that."

"No, I'm not," you say with a sigh, "I wave my pompoms. I sway in the background in glee," you pause as you look at her, willing her to look at you to convey how much you mean this, "With Regionals coming up, you should focus on that—it's your future, Rachel. Not me. Not Finn."

"What are you saying?" She finally looks at you, and you can see circles under her eyes, tears threatening to fill them.

"I know you like Finn a lot; you could even love him," you take a breath, "but I'm asking you to be realistic… not just about whatever this is—"

"You still can't even acknowledge it, can you?"

"Look, Rachel," your voice escalating slightly, but it falls back to its tired tone, "look at the big picture. Do you want to know how this all plays out? I end up with one of these boys, like Puck or another captain of some sports team here. You and Finn break up and hearts get broken. I graduate, maybe go to OSU, and then settle down right back here."

"Quinn, you'll get out of Lima."

You shake your head, cutting off any reassurances she could offer, "I'm meant to be a big fish in a small pond. You aren't. You don't belong here, Rachel," you say, and you hate how your voice cracks when you say her name, "and you can be angry with me for ruining this and the past year. But you can't hate me for helping to send you on your way—to snap you out of this provincial, school girl fantasy, and make you realize that people like me and Finn aren't meant to be any more than high school memories."

"You're more important than that."

"No, I'm not. Neither is Finn, and the sooner you understand that, the sooner we can all do what we're supposed to—let these years play out like they should and then your real life starts," you say this with a sad smile, willing yourself to dress your words in hope instead of soaking it in the sorrow of your own loss—this is about her, not you, "Rachel, with people like me and Finn in the picture, we'll just hold you back. You'll never get it right until you see that."

A tear slips past Rachel's eyes as she closes them and steadies her breath. You can't see her like this and stay around and wait for her to give you false hope—convince you that you could give her what she wants and needs. This is the only way you know how to stop this, to protect your heart from further damage and make sure Rachel gets the life she deserves, away from this childish scorn McKinley has thrust upon her—what you've done to torment her.

You stand up to leave, but you let yourself put your hand on her shoulder. "You have a wonderful future ahead of you, Rachel," you manage, your voice trembling. You let your hand fall away, and you walk out of the room before Rachel can find the words to cast a spell on you, the kind of spell that makes you the protagonist in this story, like the hero who offers up their heart without fear of pain. The best you can do is make sure the real hero gets her happy ending.

* * *

 **23.**

The flowers have finally decided to bloom in the spring sunshine, stretching their limbs out from their wintry cocoons. You always liked the spring, but you still feel cold and locked inside, especially when your gaze meets Rachel's across the hallway or as she sings in glee. When you witness the tension between Finn and Rachel, you don't feel as amused or happy about it as Santana. You know this is what you wanted for her, but seeing her tired eyes, the way she holds herself as if she's aching, isn't something you could have prepared yourself for.

When you hear Finn in the hallway, you can't help but glance over at the couple.

"Just tell me what's going on!" he exclaims, quickly hushed by Rachel, who closes her eyes and tries to remain calm.

"I can't explain it. Especially right now."

"You won't talk to me. You normally love talking!" Finn says, earning himself a glare.

Rachel shakes her head and walks away, leaving Finn at his locker. He slams it shut, which has been happening often lately, before stomping his way to class.

* * *

The weeks leading up to the Regionals competition has been stressful: Members still haven't learned all their dance routines, timing is off, and then there's the tension everyone in the group can sense resonating from Finn and Rachel and some unknown source.

You smile, however, when Mr. Schuester announces that Rachel will be singing the opening solo for the New Directions at the competition. He explains the song she's selected—something from an old off-Broadway musical—and how it will affect the tone of the performance. Apparently Rachel has been seeking advice from Mr. Schuester, which you find to be quite preposterous. Still, it's the first time Rachel's looked something close to happy in the past two weeks.

* * *

As you stand in the wings, you watch Rachel walk out onto the dark stage in front of the curtain. Others are getting into position, but you insist on watching "to make sure Berry doesn't blow it."

When the lights come up, you see that modest smile—a quirk of her lips, in a way that hints at the confidence that that's where she belongs—but there's a hint of melancholy to match the way her eyes seem to shine in the spotlight. When the pianist starts playing the music, there's a small hum from the audience as they try to identify the song.

"She wrote this herself, you know," Mr. Schuester says, seemingly appearing beside you with a bright grin. "It was a little secret of ours. She's really grown as an artist."

"Really?"

Mr. Schuester merely nods as Rachel takes a breath and begins to sing.

" _What have I done? I wish I could run, away from this ship going under. Just trying to help, hurt everyone else. Now I feel the weight of the world is on my shoulders_ …" You feel the familiar shiver run down your spine at the sound of her voice, but your body starts to tremble lightly as she closes her eyes and continues to sing, " _What can you do when your good isn't good enough, and all that you touch tumbles down? 'Cause my best intentions keep making a mess of things, I just wanna fix it somehow. But how many times will it take? Oh, how many times will it take for me to get it right… to get it right?_ "

You stand in awe, watching Rachel sing the very words you've wished you were strong enough to confess. She's the bravest person you've ever met, and here you are, on the sidelines with your open mouth and breathless lungs.

As Rachel finishes the final verse, she looks over into the wings of the stage, and you suddenly feel so full, almost delusional as you consider walking out onto the stage and kissing her and telling her she's always been right.

When the lights go down, you feel yourself breathe out, " _Wow_ ," but it's mirrored by another voice. You turn around and see Finn standing beside you, an expression of amazement to match your own. Then you suddenly feel small again because maybe this wasn't about you. Maybe being with Finn is her way to get things right, put her life back on the track you threw yourself onto, derailing her plans.

* * *

You win Regionals, so the glee club has a modest celebration due to the number of parents who attended. They have milkshakes at Breadsticks, and Rachel provided her own almond milk for her own. When Rachel looks your way, you force yourself to meet her gaze and give her a small smile. She returns it, but it's broken when Finn puts his arm around her and congratulates her again for carrying the team to victory. It's a friendly gesture, but it twists around in your chest and makes it difficult for you to contribute to the enthusiastic conversations around you.

* * *

You're in the bed of Puck's truck, each equipped with flasks he bought for you as a "bromantic gesture." You slipped into more comfortable clothes, but Puck just removed his jacket and undid his bowtie. You both share a few laughs regarding some of the ridiculous performances at the Regionals competition, but you both let the silence fall gently between you as you look up at the sky.

You slide forward and recline, using one of Puck's old cushions as a pillow. He smiles and does the same. There's only the sound of crickets and the slumber of spring, rustling leaves in the light breeze, and the swishing of the bourbon in the flasks as you both drink.

Your stomach feels warm and you imagine the stars and the moon are closer tonight. You close your eyes as you breathe in the night air, but Puck nudges you lightly with his elbow.

"Hey, Q?" he says, in a low, soft voice you're not sure you've ever heard him use. You turn your head to him and he gives you a small, crooked smile—so unlike the ones he tosses around at the other girls in school. "It's… okay, y'know… If you want to talk about stuff with me."

"Like some freshman screwing up a Cheerios routine?" you say, laughing up at the sky and taking a small sip from your flask.

"I'm trying to be serious," he says in a kind voice, so you look at him again, "I mean… if you want to talk about whatever's going on with you… and Rachel?"

You sit up at this, Rachel being the last name you'd expect to come from Puck in this context. Puck follows your movements and leans back against the side of the truck, and you realize your breath is shaky and your hands are almost humming as they struggle to cap the flask.

"I'm not trying to pressure you or anything," he says gently, "I just… whatever it is, it seems difficult."

You look at him and his face appears blurry, so you quickly wipe at your eyes. "It's… Wha—… How?"

He shrugs, "I just noticed you… look at her like I wanted you to look at me for a while. So I put the pieces together."

There's a long pause, and you uncap your flask again to take a swig. You imagine the burning sensation is lighting all the lies sitting in your throat on fire—cleansing you of the sacraments and prayers that marked all these truths as sins, "Only you and Mercedes know," you say, barely above a whisper, fiddling with the clasp of the cap. "And my sister… Does anyone else know?"

Puck shakes his head, "Most of the glee club can barely hold eye contact with you, let alone notice your behavior," he says with a grin.

You let out a small laugh. "Good… Good."

"So are you going to do anything?"

You look up as if the constellations will give you better answers than the ones you looked for when you would bow your head in prayer or read the Bible. The stars wink at you, but they don't say much.

"No," you say, "Maybe… I'm not sure." You take a drink before reclining into your previous position, "I'm not sure about anything anymore."

Puck lies down beside you but motions for you to come closer. You let him wrap his arms around you, and you feel safe and calmed by his steady heartbeat against your ear.

"You don't have to be sure," he says, his breath rustling your hair, "but I think you deserve to be happy. She could make you happy," he pauses, and you wonder if he's fallen asleep, but then he adds, "Maybe that's enough of a reason to try."

"Yeah," you say, pausing as you raise your flask. He bumps his against yours, a small, metal clang, "To 'Maybes.'"

He chuckles lightly, and you smile when you feel him press a kiss on the top of your head.


	15. Chapter 15

**At the Crossroads**

* * *

 **24.**

You're sitting alone in the library, trying to do your homework but finding it hard not to think about Rachel, standing on that stage and singing the words you haven't exchanged. Like an apparition, Rachel appears in front of you. You know your mouth is slightly open as she stands across the table, wringing her hands as she bites her lip, her eyes searching your own.

You struggle to find anything appropriate to say in the quiet of the library, but before you can even manage a greeting, she says in a low voice, "I broke up with him. It's over," she pauses, but you can tell she doesn't expect you to respond, "I wanted to tell you myself."

Without waiting for a response, she turns and leaves you in your solitary corner of the library.

* * *

The sound of your footsteps seems to ring in the auditorium as you step out onto the stage where Rachel is practicing her scales. Coach Sylvester has to attend a meeting with the Board of Education, so she canceled practice for the day. You, of course, knew you could find Rachel here. The notes pause, and Rachel turns in her seat to see you standing awkwardly to the side, wanting to keep some distance as if to avoid frightening her. This is what you expect, anyway; there have been far too many occasions when you hurt her when she let you so close.

"That song," you say, your voice slightly raspy from your silence throughout the day, "it wasn't for Finn…"

Rachel shakes her head, "No."

You take a deep breath and take a few steps forward and sit in a nearby chair. You look at your hands for a moment before you force yourself to look up at her, let her in because it's the least she deserves. "I'm sorry," you say, and you feel breathless for a moment, not only because the long overdue apology, but because she's so beautiful and you've missed her eyes. "I'm sorry for how I treated you—pushing you away, making you feel like… none of it mattered… like you didn't matter," you lick your lips before you continue, "I'm not good at gray areas, Rachel."

She looks down at this, so you stand from your chair and sit beside her on the piano bench. She looks up at you when you take her hand in yours, "I like… rules and clear, defined lines. That way I know how I'm supposed to act—who I'm supposed to be," you give her a timid smile, "Then I walked into that choir room, and you just contradicted everything I told myself."

Her lips turn up slightly at this, and you feel that fluttering in your chest again; something about it is slightly different though, as if it's less of an innocent daydream and more like healing.

You clear your throat lightly, and you close your eyes as you begin your confession, "My full name is Lucy Quinn Fabray," and the wings in your ribcage seem to stretch your lungs and you're breathing in new air, so you open your eyes to see Rachel smiling and there's the lightness that you never allowed Quinn to welcome—to really hold onto when you were with Rachel, "I was overweight; I had no idea what a hair straightener was; and I was bullied every day since fourth grade at my old school… I thought I knew how to fix Lucy by being Quinn—by following all the Fabray rules and being everything I thought I should be."

When Rachel's eyes start to shine, you feel something shift in you, and you're brave enough to lift your hand and brush her cheek, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. Everything is suddenly bright and in color when she leans into your touch. "I'm breaking all the rules now," you say, and the way the way the words float out with ease make your insides feel less empty but full of something so much lighter, "I don't know what I'm doing with my life, but I know that the way I feel when I'm with you… it's me—who I really want to be."

You blink back some tears because this isn't about you and your aching—this is about Rachel, how incredibly strong she is. "You are an amazing person, Rachel, and I really don't know if I deserve this, but… I want more than I said. I want the strings, the feelings," you steady your voice and take a breath, "I want it to count with us."

Rachel smiles and there's no spotlight or trophy that could compare to the feeling of receiving such a gift—a blessing.

"I want you," you say, caressing her cheek, trailing your fingers down to the nape of her neck, "You on your good days, bad days… because I love everything about you—your voice, your talent, you rants, your absurd sweater collection," she lets out a breathy laugh and you grin, "Everything.

"I just… I might screw up sometimes, but you make me want to be better. I want to be enough for you."

Rachel puts her hand over yours, leading it to her lips where she kisses your palm, then entwines your fingers with hers before she closes the distance between you and kisses you softly. When you part, she whispers, "You're more than enough."

The music sits on the piano temporarily forgotten as you both close your eyes and sink into the dream-like harmony of yours lips—of these first kisses without the footnotes and qualifiers. Just breath. Just grace and delicacy. Just the ease of letting someone in without the worry of being hurt. Something like hope. Something like love. Like it was always supposed to be.

* * *

 **25.**

One day after school, you show up at Rachel's house with a bouquet of flowers. When she opens the door, she grins at the sight of you. You had just seen each other during school, but you've been planning this for a while.

"Hey," she says softly, standing on her tiptoes to kiss you softly.

It takes great restraint not to deepen the kiss, but when you part, you offer her the bouquet of wildflowers and gardenias.

"What's this for?" she asks, her cheeks slightly pink from the sweet gesture.

"Well," you clear your throat, "I was wondering if you would like to go on a date with me?"

She gives you the brightest smile, and you're sure even the latest spring blossoms bloomed in that moment. "I would love to."

"I don't really want to see anyone else, so… um…"

Rachel laughs. "Are you really asking?"

"Well, I just wanted to be sure," you say, biting your lip with embarrassment.

She pulls you down to capture your lips, then mumbles between a small set of kisses, "I'd love to _go steady_ , with you, Quinn."

You smile against her lips, and you feel like the foolish, hopeful teen you were never allowed to be before. When you part, Rachel lets you into the house. She leads you into the kitchen so she can put the flowers in water. You sit at one of the island counter stools while you watch her arrange them carefully, and you feel guilty for what you have to ask of Rachel. "Rach?"

She looks up and her brows furrow in concern when she sees your serious expression. "What is it?" she asks, walking around the counter to stand next to you.

"You know I don't want you to be a secret," you say, taking her hand, "but… my parents—"

Rachel shakes her head and gives your hand a reassuring squeeze. "I know. You can take as much time as you need."

"It just… It'll be hard, and it's not fair to you."

Rachel gives you a sad sort of smile and brushes some hair from your face, "You're one of the bravest people I know, Quinn. I have complete confidence in you. We'll make it."

* * *

You press Rachel into the bed and trail kisses down past her jawline, letting your tongue dart out to find her pulse. You went on your first official date to a nice vegan place a town over, then had silly conversation over tea at a café; you're learning more about Rachel every day, and you feel so unburdened now that you aren't putting up your walls. You think you're falling in love with her all over again, but it feels more like floating.

When Rachel lifts her hips to meet yours, you pull away. She gives you a slightly concerned look, so you peck her lips before explaining, "I… Would it be okay if we went a bit slower this time?"

Rachel smiles, and you know she's starting to see your more timid sides—she's learning about Lucy.

"I want to get it right this time," you say, shifting to the side of her, propping your head up on your hand, your elbow finding a spot beside her pillow as your free hand traces her star necklace.

Rachel lifts her head to kiss your cheek. "That is absolutely fine by me."

You play with her hair for a bit, grinning as you think about all the things you can learn together, how you can grow together. Rachel bites her lip at one point, rolling onto her side as she briefly scans your body. "So… _how_ slow, exactly?"

You feign shock. " _Rachel Berry_!"

Rachel swats at you with one of her many small pillows. "I'm a pretty quick learner. That's all," she says with a shrug, but a mischievous smirk.

"Mhm," you hum, closing the gap between your bodies and kissing the corner of her lips. "It'll all work out in time."

* * *

You're fuming. Losing Nationals is a small part of your rage, but the majority of your anger is directed toward Finn. In a misguided attempt to win Rachel over, he kissed her on stage after their opening duet. It took great restraint not to stomp out onto the stage and slap him for kissing your girlfriend. Luckily, no one was injured and your brooding appears to only be the result of losing the competition.

You're folding your clothes and packing for the flight back home when Rachel sidles up beside you and bumps her hip with yours. She grins, and you return it.

"Are you okay?" she asks gently.

You nod. "Are you?"

She shrugs, "I wanted to win. If this were last year, I'd be attacking several judges or something," she says with a small laugh as she folds her own clothes beside you, "but I got to walk around Central Park with my girlfriend. Hold hands with her. Kiss her in Sheep's Meadow. Eat really great vegan food. Kiss my girlfriend. And did I mention my girlfriend?"

Your chest swells, and you can hear Brittany in the room over, singing as she packs and most likely dancing around as Santana smiles at her like the softy she is. You know Santana is going at her own pace with Britt since she broke up with Artie, and when you catch her staring lovingly at Brittany and give her a knowing smirk, she always tells you to shut up.

You take the shirt from Rachel's hands and put it down on top of her other clothes strewn about the bed so you can take her in your arms and kiss her. You're convinced that you're always meant to be this close. That if what they say in science class is true, the star stuff in the both of you was always in the same orbit.

* * *

You kiss your way up Rachel's body as her chest rises and falls in attempt to slow her breathing. She sighs with a sleepy grin as you lay beside her, watching your hand skim up her body, along the curve of his hips and the valley between her breasts.

It's been a month since your first official date. A couple times, you both almost gave in and pulled each other's clothes off like the hormonal teens you are, but you wanted to prove to Rachel and yourself that having her in your life is the most important thing. Still, sex is also a wonderful benefit of dating Rachel Berry.

Rachel had suggested a date to see _Funny Girl_ showing in a park a couple towns away for your one-month anniversary, and when you mentioned that your parents would be gone for the weekend, she kissed you and said, " _I'm ready if you are._ " You nodded and pressed your lips to hers again, making sure to keep it innocent enough so you could take your time after your date.

Now you're looking at Rachel's naked body, and you realize how comfortable it feels for the both of you to be so bare—nothing between you. You don't feel ashamed when you let your eyes roam, noting each freckle and birthmark.

"Worth the wait?" you mumble with a smile, leaning down to press your lips to her collar bone.

Rachel just hums with a sleepy smile. You've been in bed for four hours now, and you're both pretty tired. You don't bother getting dressed because your parents won't be back for another day, so instead you just pull Rachel closer and kiss the back of her shoulder, whispering a goodnight but eager for the morning—your first and last words of the day should always belong to her.

* * *

You lead the Cheerios to a national championship, proudly leading the pack carrying the trophy through the school halls to be placed in the already over-sized William McKinley Cheerleading trophy display.

When school's dismissed, you stop in the hallway to examine the four-foot trophy. You grin, but mostly because you see Rachel appear beside you in the glass reflection.

"Congratulations," she says, smiling.

You let out a small laugh at the sight of your height difference before you turn to face her and pull her into a hug.

"I'm proud of you," Rachel says into your shoulder.

"I'm more proud of this," you say, capturing her lips for a brief kiss.

You are. You're proud of yourself and Rachel. You're learning that you deserve things in the world, and Rachel is there, holding your hand, to remind you during the times you forget. You're allowed to be happy, and you only want the same for Rachel.

* * *

Puck hosts the Cheerios' championship party, the glee club also invited, and provided jungle juice and Natty for everyone. He gave you your own bottle of Evan Williams, which you and Rachel are passing back and forth to each other as you both watch an interesting mix of glee club, Cheerios, and football players playing spin the bottle.

For the sexually insecure football players, Puck made it a rule that if they weren't down to kiss a dude, they'd have to strip an article of clothing. You know he did this because inevitably the guys would be pushed into a corner when they're in their underwear and have to kiss a guy while almost naked.

You notice a freshman Cheerio making out with Artie and quirk an eyebrow. Rachel snorts at the sight, "Artie is quite the Casanova."

You look around and decide to take advantage of the distractions, taking Rachel by the hand to go to Puck's laundry room.

You lift her up onto the dryer and stand between her parted legs with your hands on her hips, pulling her against you as you kiss deeply.

"We're not… going to…" Rachel manages between kisses as you run your hands up under her shirt and along her back.

"No, not here," you say, but one of your hands has worked its way toward the front of her shirt and slipped under her bra.

Rachel moans, which makes you forget your prior statement, so you nip at her neck as your free hand slips between her legs and under her skirt.

" _Fuck_ ," Rachel gasps, her hips shifting to meet your hand as it teases her over the fabric of her underwear. You really love the sound of Rachel cursing.

You silence her with another deep kiss, and you're about to push her panties aside when light fills the small room. You quickly pull your hands from Rachel, but don't jump away.

An excited squeal comes from one of the silhouettes in the doorway, and when your eyes adjust, you see Brittany and Santana. Rachel looks from them to you, biting her lip nervously.

Brittany is clutching Santana's arm now and jumping up and down, "I _told_ you! I knew it! And look how hot they look together!"

You feel your face flush, but the panic you expected never comes.

You see Santana rolls her eyes. "I just puked in my mouth."

"Ignore her," Brittany says, taking Santana's hand and the doorknob in the other. "C'mon. San. Let's see if Puck's room is free," she turns back to you and Rachel with a grin, "Have fun!"

You blink in the dark a few times before turning to Rachel, and she waits and tries to read your facial expression. For a moment you listen to the dull bass coming from the stereo, but when you put everything in perspective, you start laughing.

"Are you okay?" Rachel asks, looking amused and slightly worried by your reaction.

You nod and grin, taking her face in your hands and kissing her. "I'm better than okay."

She chuckles, pressing her lips to your face repeatedly, dotting you with a bunch of quick kisses. "Me too."

* * *

When you got back to Rachel's and successfully snuck up to her room, you both laughed quietly as you both stumbled around and pulled off each other's clothes. The darkness soon became full of hitches in your breath, achingly sweet touches, warm words, and slightly drunk, messy kissing. You fell into bed and wondered if this was what infinitude felt like—this moment of haziness but being so acutely aware of Rachel's body pressed against yours, the sound of your name dressed in a moan.

* * *

Rachel blinks her eyes awake as you dust feather-light kisses along her breasts, the light creeping in through her blinds giving her skin a sort of halo. She smiles at you and basically rolls on top of you. You've started doing this because, according to Rachel, " _touch is very important for relationships._ " So for a few minutes each morning or night, you press your bare bodies against each other and close your eyes, breathing in sync with one another. You let the silence, which so often overwhelms you at home, soothe you as you share tranquility with her.

When Rachel pulls away and kisses the corner of your mouth, you run your hands up her arms and grin. You're both relatively hungover, but your night was well worth it.

"I want to start telling people," you say, your voice still raspy from sleep, "about us."

Rachel's grin widens and she nods, "Whatever you're comfortable with."

* * *

The first person you told, other than Brittany, Santana, and Puck who already figured it out, was your sister. She had finished her studies and, of course, passed with flying colors. She insisted that she meet " _your lady_ " and take you to dinner. Despite how much you both love one another, you're nervously bouncing your leg under the table at the restaurant as Frannie looks across at you and Rachel. You feel very much on display, and you just want to make her and Rachel proud. You finished the basic introductions when Frannie picked Rachel up, and you and Rachel asked about her travels and plans on the car ride. You're bubbling with all these things you want to say about Rachel—to _brag_ about, but you're not sure how to start. Rachel, unfortunately, is quite timid as well.

"Jesus, Luce," Frannie comments as you pull apart some bread on your plate as you all wait for the waitress. You look up at her and she gives you a smirk, and you can tell Rachel is smiling at your sister's use of your nickname. Frannie rips off a piece of bread and smiles, "I'm not the pope. You can, you know, acknowledge your girlfriend around me."

You clear your throat awkwardly, "I don't do PDA," you look at Rachel, who's still grinning, and you can't help your eyes from drifting down to her lips.

When you look at your sister again, she has a skeptical expression—a perfect eyebrow quirked in a truly Fabray fashion. She turns her attention to Rachel. "So, more about why we're here. If I'm not mistaken, _you_ were the one who branded Lucy Q, here, huh?"

" _Fran_ ," you hiss as the heat rushes to your cheeks.

Frannie laughs and shrugs. "I'm so glad I never saw you two in school. I'd have barfed at how obvious you two were."

You look at Rachel, and your lips curve up at the sight of her flushed face. She looks at you and smiles.

Yeah. It is obvious. At least it is now.

"But… I'm really glad you told me, Q," Frannie says in a warm voice. "And thanks for dealing with her," she adds to Rachel.

You toss a bit of bread crust at her. "I'm not _completely_ intolerable… Just moderately."

Rachel laughs, and because you're at a restaurant outside of Lima, she leans over and kisses you on the cheek. "So is the stubbornness a Fabray trait or just Quinn?"

Frannie has a bit of bread in her mouth, "We're all assholes," she says, and the minute amount of tension that had been there disappears when you laugh.

Suddenly, the world feels more welcoming and everything says that it can be this easy.

* * *

After dropping off Rachel on your way home, Frannie comments, "If you did want to tell Mom and Dad," she says gently, "I'd support you."

You look at her, a bit surprised by her suggestion. She continues to watch the road when you reply, "Dad could throw me out." You let your voice sound as unsure as you feel because being Lucy in front of Frannie has always felt okay.

She nods because she knows this is true. "There's Aunt Cynthia."

"She's nuts," you say with a snort.

"But not _Republican-nuts_ ," Frannie adds, giving you a smile and glancing at you out of the corner of her eye. "Besides," she says with a sigh, pulling the car into the driveway, "I like Rachel. She makes you happy."

* * *

As predicted, Rachel's dads pull you and Rachel into a big hug. Both make comments about being good to their baby, but they smile when you promise to be the best you can be.

Both you and Rachel blush when they declare the open-door rule. "We understand kids are going to do what they're going to do," LeRoy says, resting his hands on one of your shoulders and one of Rachel's. You hear her mumble a " _Sweet Barbra_ " and bite back a chuckle, "but we want to instate a 'Don't ask, don't tell' rule."

Hiram nods in agreement, "We believe that sex is an important part of an intimate relationship—"

"Ohhhkay," Rachel says, removing LeRoy's hand from her shoulder, "I think we got it."

"Rach, let your father finish," LeRoy says, giving her a look that really explains how well Rachel can emote with her eyes.

She huffs, but looks at Hiram.

"We want you to have the relationship you want," Hiram explains, "but we're also fathers. So… be safe, and we're fine being left in the dark about these things."

You both nod, and you let out a small sigh of relief when Hiram and LeRoy high five each other, "Told you it'd be easy!" LeRoy says.

You laugh, and Rachel looks at you with a grin, taking your hand and squeezing it.

"The sweetest," Hiram says, leaning on LeRoy and looking at the two of you.

"We're going to go now," Rachel says, taking you by the hand and leading you to the basement to watch a movie.

"Thank you," you say over your shoulder as Rachel pulls you along.

They smile, and Hiram adds, "We're proud of the both of you."

As you descend the basement stairs, you hear LeRoy say, "That Quinn Fabray is quite the catch, too."

"Not like our Rachel isn't."

"Power-duo."

* * *

You bag is sitting by the front door, and your sister gives your hand a squeeze as you sit in an over-sized chair, her perched beside you on the arm of it. Your parents look across the coffee table at the two of you, waiting. Your mother has a larger-than-usual beverage in hand, which she sips from, the ice against the glass creating the only sound in the room.

Frannie gives you a nod of reassurance, so you take a deep breath.

"I think I know how you'll react to this," you say, your voice quiet but steady, "but I want to believe there's a chance you'll prove me wrong."

Your mother takes another drink, and something about her expression looks like she might cry. Your father merely clenches his jaw, his eyes focused on you intently.

"I know you always wanted the best for me, and the best by your definition," you say, and though your voice wavers slightly, you use the Fabray strength to your advantage, "but I didn't know I deserved good things without your approval."

"What are you saying, Quinn?" your father murmurs, reaching for his own glass before returning his stolid gaze to you.

"I've found the best thing—the best person—for me," you say. You lick your dry lips before continuing, "I found a kind of love that only asks I do my best to be good. No trophies. No tiaras. Just," you motion to your simple state, "me."

Your father clears his throat, and the redness of his face reveals his slow processing of your words.

"I want you to be proud of me," you say, and your voice cracks and Lucy begins to shine through, "I want you to be proud of the love I've found, and maybe you will someday, be proud that I have someone like Rachel in my life."

Your mother lets out a small, but audible, gasp, and your father's silence—just the inhale and exhale of his breath through his nose—were less threatening than predicted. You notice your father's grip on his knees tighten, and your mother places a hand on his leg to attempt to calm him.

"I don't understand…" your father says gruffly, and you know he's offering you the chance to take back this confession.

"I love her. I want to be with her," you say, and you blink back the tears, willing the pleading tone to disappear—you don't need their approval to love someone, "I _am_ with her."

Your father's icy glare rests on your face, and it's as if he doesn't even recognize you. "Get out," he says flatly. "I won't have your misguided lifestyle choice—your _sins_ —under my roof!" he says, his voice quickly escalating.

You wince, but otherwise don't react. "Aunt Cynthia said I can use her house while she's in Vegas," you say curtly, standing from your seat; you know this conversation is over, "I'll stay there for as long as you need."

"Just… get out," he says bitterly.

You turn toward the foyer when you hear your father's voice. "Where are you going?"

You pick up your bag as Frannie replies, "I'm staying with her. I want to support her. She's my sister, and I love her unconditionally."

You're opening the door when Frannie enters the foyer, giving you a sad smile. She goes to leave, but you tell her you'll be an extra second.

You walk into the living room where your parents sit silently, unmoving. You unclasp your necklace, and hold it out to your father. He looks away from you, but your mother takes your hand in both of hers for a moment. You watch as a few tears fall from her eyes as you let go of the necklace and let your hand fall to your side.

"When you think I deserve it again… When I make you proud," you say. Without another word, you walk out of the room and out the front door.

You give Frannie a nod once you're in the car, and she backs out of the driveway to bring you and your select belongings to your aunt's house. You're halfway there when your lip trembles, and you try to take a breath but end up sobbing. Frannie pulls over on the side of a residential street and tries to soothe you. You shake your head and let out a small, watery laugh. "It's okay," you say, wiping at your eyes, "I… I finally did it."

She nods, pulling a tissue from her purse and handing it to you. "You did, Lucy Q. You've always been braver than me."

Eventually you convince your sister that you're well enough for her to keep driving. The sunlight bounces off the tops of cars and windows, and there are hardly any clouds as summer begins to make its way into the spring. So much green. The weight on your chest begins to dissipate, and you realize that for so long you were carrying the what-ifs of coming out, repeatedly imagining and experiencing the shame of being rejected from your parents. Now that you finally have, even with their disproval—your father's rage and your mother's silence—you have your answer to the what-if, and you no longer have to wake up to the burdensome question. You only have to wake up and make it to the moment you lay eyes on Rachel, smiling at you and convincing you that your love is holier than anything from your Catholic upbringing.

* * *

You look around the sparse guest room on the first floor of your aunt's house, still relatively empty even though you've unpacked. But you feel free.

You call Rachel and let her know how it went, and she says the right things to remind you that you're brave and she'll always be proud of you. She shows up with all the ingredients for vegan carrot cake cookies, and you both roll up your sleeves and start prepping them.

Once they're ready to be put in the oven, you set them aside to start making tofu stir-fry and insist that Rachel do the pile of homework she's put off. You watch her flipping through her books with her pen in her mouth, mindlessly twirling a strand of hair around her finger, and you think that if this were your future—cooking as Rachel looks over work or bills, the way she looks up occasionally with a grin—you'd be happy with the way life turned out.

Frannie shows up with a bunch of groceries and some necessities that you know your aunt would never use in her life—like a full-length mirror and an extra bookshelf. Frannie promises to return to the house on your behalf and bring your " _fucking library_ " over—you do think your books would make you feel more at home. After bringing everything in from her car, she says she'll hide away in Aunt Cynthia's room for the night and leave you two alone. She pulls out a box from one of the bags from Bed Bath and Beyond. She lifts it and shows you—a white noise machine. Rachel immediately blushes and Frannie laughs in triumph; it must be a Fabray thing to enjoy embarrassing Rachel.

After dinner, while the cookies are baking, you kiss Rachel against the island counter. You get interrupted by your phone ringing, and see it's Aunt Cynthia. You swipe the screen of your phone to answer. You can hear the sounds of a casino in the background as you have a friendly chat, but you have to keep lightly pushing Rachel away who keeps giggling and as she places feather light kisses along your neck.

Aunt Cynthia lets you know that there's plenty of wine in the liquor cabinet, and she won't be upset if you and " _your girlfriend_ " have a few drinks in the house—" _Just don't break anything and keep the drinking in the house. Don't drink and drive. Yadayada. Do the fun parts of what I did when I was your age, but stay out of trouble._ "

You're grateful that your aunt is a single woman who rebelled against your grandparents' traditional values; while your mom was always a waspy elitist, your aunt joined the punk scene in college and her parents almost disowned her when she traveled the states to follow Joan Jett. Your mother still stays in touch with her, only because of proximity and because your grandparents told her to keep an eye on her younger sister. Still, despite her spontaneity and irresponsible tendencies, you appreciate her trust in you.

* * *

After cookies, you and Rachel watch some trashy television and drink some red wine that's too dry and adult-like for both of you, but you both drink it because you can. It's a Saturday night, but you both nod off to the murmuring of teen dramas on television.

You both wake up to Rachel's phone ringing, and she answers it to tell her dads that she's going to stay over with you. You take the wine glasses and place them in the sink as Rachel speaks with them, knowing her dads are telling her to be safe when you catch her rolling her eyes as you reenter the living room. Rachel hangs up before yawning and stretching.

"Bed time?" you ask with a grin, offering your hand to pull her up from the couch.

"Mhm," she says, standing on her tip-toes to give you a short kiss on the lips.

You turn off the TV and make your way to the guest room, now full of books and feeling more like yours. You're both too tired from your long day, so you lend Rachel some pajamas and you take off your dress and slip into a baggy t-shirt. The slide into the double bed and pull back the sheets for Rachel to get in beside you after she switches off the lamp. You find her waist in the dark and pull her toward you, breathing in her scent, happy to be falling asleep to the smell of safety and the opposite of loneliness.

"Quinn?" Rachel rolls over so she's facing you, still wrapped up in your arms. Your eyes have adjusted to the light streaming in from the nearby streetlight, so you can make out Rachel's features, but most importantly her eyes.

"Hm?" you hum, tracing her jawline then down her neck with your fingertips.

"I think it's quite obvious," she says with a breathy laugh, "but… I love you. And it's all very strange how it happened, but I don't think it really has to make sense. It just feels right."

You smile, and you know she can see you in the dim light, so you shift your head to her pillow and kiss her, then whisper against her lips, "I love you too."

You share a few more tender kisses before sighing and pulling her close.

"I want to hold you tonight," Rachel says.

You laugh, "Okay."

When she spoons you, you take her hands and shift around the bed while making sound effects as if wearing a jetpack until she swats you lightly and tells you to stop making fun of her for being so short. Eventually you settle in and hum at the feeling of her body against yours, her warm breath against the back of your neck. You fall asleep to the sound of her even breaths and the feeling of her heartbeat against your spine, spreading a new kind of hope throughout your entire body.

* * *

Needless to say, news of your relationship with Rachel spreads like wildfire once you walk in holding hands, later confirmed by a brief kiss by your locker. Jacob Ben Israel has a multimedia field day. You manage to threaten him before he can take a paparazzi-like photo of you and Rachel kissing. Puck gives you a high-five in the hallway and a wink. You scoff, but smile. Despite his generally immature behavior, you've learned about his sensitive sides.

After Cheerios practice, where you made the girls run drills around the track for an hour to reinforce your HBIC status, you meet with Rachel in the auditorium. You greet her with a kiss, and she grins as you wrap your arms around your waist.

"So I was thinking," Rachel says, sighing and swatting your hand that started to slip up the back of her shirt, "about prom."

You quirk an eyebrow. "You do realize it's for juniors and seniors, right?"

She rolls her eyes. "Listen. I want to have a party, but my dads will be around, so…" she gives you a cheesy, hopeful grin.

"You want to have it at my aunt's," you say.

She nods. "You can say no, but she did say we could have fun."

You pull Rachel closer and whisper, "That's not really the fun I was thinking about."

"Well, there's that too. I mean, prom is definitely known for the amount of sexual promiscuity that happens afterward."

"You sound like Figgins," you say with a snort.

She gives you a playful glare, but pouts. "Please?"

You sigh. "Fine, but you have to help me move all the fragile stuff out of the way."

"We won't have a ton of booze or anything. Maybe some wine coolers."

"Puck will probably spike the punch."

"More like 'Puck will definitely spike the punch,' but it won't get too wild. I think glee and a few select people from the football team and Cheerios will be okay."

You nod. "Okay, but only because I have this really hot girl I want to ask to prom."

Rachel traces her fingers from your arms to your shoulder, wrapping her arms around your neck. "I'm not sure your girlfriend would like that very much."

You know it's cheesy, but you smile because you deserve this—the ease, the teasing, the giddiness. You need more innocent flirting in your life—to let yourself feel excited.

Not much rehearsing gets done, and your kissing gets interrupted by gagging sounds as Santana walks in with Brittany, insisting they use the stage to practice a duet performance they have planned for a glee assignment.

After some brief bickering with Santana, you walk out of the school hand-in-hand, and you don't let go until after you've driven Rachel home and kissed her goodbye. (You both decided that you're not at your most academically productive state of mind when you're around each other.) You watch Rachel wave before disappearing through her front door, and you know she'll text you later to remind you to study and prepare for glee. You grin to yourself because it's all rather predictable, but you need the stability of that—the kind you find in Rachel.

* * *

Puck, of course, spiked the punch, but no one is vomiting. The karaoke machine is on full-blast, hooked up to the speakers Rachel brought with her. Rather than offer to help, you just laughed as Rachel carried them into the house, the size of them making Rachel seem that much tinier as she waddled her way past you with a huff.

Rachel already got permission to spend the night, and everyone is dressed in inexpensive cocktail dresses, except Kurt is in a dashing, coated tuxedo with a perfect matte finish, skipping out on the tie and donning an ascot instead. Perhaps the best part was that his date, a curly-haired boy from the nearby private school with a matching pocket square.

You look around the room, proud to see everyone getting along, the Cheerios and jocks dancing to Brittany and Santana's duet. You feel an arm slip around your waist, and you just place a kiss on Rachel's forehead. Your moment is short because Puck puts his arm around the both of you, a flask in one hand. You raise an eyebrow at him, and he reassures you that Finn is driving him home.

You look across the room and see Finn talking to a freshman Cheerio, and they're both laughing. Finn looks up and meets your gaze, giving you one of his half-grins and a nod. You return the gesture. Although he was as surprised as the rest, he managed to figure out the reasons why he felt like his relationship with Rachel was always missing something. He brooded for a bit, but came around once Puck talked to him.

* * *

You and Rachel pick up the empty bottles left on tables and counters, but you're relieved to find nothing broken or stained. Once the kitchen and living room are clean, Rachel's soft footsteps—now barefoot like you—signal her return to join you in the living room.

"I'd say that was a success," Rachel says with a grin.

You nod in agreement.

"Except one thing," Rachel says, walking over to the stereo. She takes a CD from out of her nearby bag and puts it in. Once she hits play, you recognize the gentle melody of a piano. "We need to have the last dance."

You smile as Rachel wraps her arms around your neck, resting them on your shoulders. You pulls her close by her waist, inhaling the faint scent of her perfume and shampoo. When a male voice starts to sing the stripped down cover of "Hey Jude," you kiss her cheek.

"Where'd you find this?" you ask, parting enough to look at her.

"I got my friend in New York to record it," she says with a grin. "Do you like it?"

You nod. "It's beautiful."

She lets out a light laugh. "Good, that will give you some points in his book."

"I'm being scored?"

She bites her bottom lip before responding, "Um. Kind of?" She laughs at your worried expression. "He's protective. One of my best friends really, but Jesse is a good guy."

You hum as you think about it and pull her close again. "I'll have to meet him and convince him I deserve you."

Rachel kisses your shoulder. "You do, and you will. I have complete confidence in you, Quinn Fabray." She lifts her head to look at you, and she brings a hand up to caress your cheek, "I love you."

Although you've said this many times, in this moment, your heart steals your voice, and you're sure it's put your pulse on pause to make sure this moment commits to memory, engraves itself in your life. You capture her lips in a deep, slow kiss, and when she sighs against your lips, she breathes reality back into you, waking you up and the world is just as light as a dream. You rest your forehead against hers, replying, "I love you too."

As you dance—drift—along to the song, you understand that this is everything Lucy once dreamed of, and now that it's you—Quinn—living this reality, you feel whole, merging past and present without the weight of your history. It's something that you can carry with you, and you're no longer surviving; you're flourishing, really, and you get to share it with Rachel.


	16. Chapter 16

**Epilogue**

* * *

You're dressed in your red cap and gown, and you clutch your speech in one hand, playing with the cross on your necklace with the other, standing behind Principal Figgins as he speaks fondly of the graduating class. You find Rachel when you glance back at your classmates, and she gives you a dorky thumbs up and a bright smile, better than any spotlight.

The past two years haven't been easy, and your relationship has had its ups and down like any other. You always found a way to make it work, and unlike the average high school relationship, you found ways to grow past the immaturity, find each other after the haze of sadness or anger, forgive, and love that much harder—discovering new ways to love and new things to love about one another.

Perhaps the biggest hurdle was facing high school graduation, acknowledging your futures. You couldn't see yourself rushing around New York for four years, and Rachel didn't ask that of you. Although the idea of distance still makes your heart ache, Rachel kissed you fiercely when you got your acceptance letter from Yale. You spent most of that weekend in bed, resulting in knowing looks from your aunt and frequently flushed cheeks from you and Rachel.

When Rachel can tell you're especially worried about being away from her, she gives you a tender kiss and whispers reassuringly, " _I'll be a train ride away._ " You slip your hand into your pocket to feel the MetroNorth passes you plan to give to Rachel after the ceremony.

The crowd claps once Figgins introduces you as the valedictorian speaker. You see your mother in the crowd, already dabbing her eyes with a tissue, and your aunt sitting beside her. You appreciate the healing you've all done together. Your aunt granted you a part of the house upon her return from Vegas, and your mother divorced your father but understood you wanted to keep your distance, respecting your independence. She visited often and managed to mend her relationship with her sister in that time. It's the closest thing you've had to family in a long time. Behind them, you see Frannie and her fiancé, Daniel, having just returned from their trip to Scotland to meet his family, where he proposed to her.

You step up to the podium and adjust the microphone as the cheering dies down. You clear your throat and smooth your speech out on the podium before beginning.

"I know we all didn't get along in our time here," you say, grinning when you see some underclassmen nod in the seats by the stage, "but we made it. This graduating class has a lot to be proud of: four National Cheerleading Championship wins," some Cheerios in the crowd whistle and shout a " _Yeah, Quinn!_ ", "three trips to the Glee Club Nationals," a loud set of cheers from Artie, Tina, Blaine, and Sam, "a high school football conference win," more hoots and hollers from jocks in the crowd, "and most recently, William McKinley became the home of the first ever Glee Club National Champions."

The crowd cheers for a moment, and you wait before continuing. "I want to thank everyone, especially the glee club. Without this team, this unexpected family, I'm sure I'd be standing here today with less pride and less happiness—less faith and more doubt. They have loved me through all the drama, through the time I wasted hating myself for the stupid mistakes I made—the kind young people are bound to make in many ways and different forms—but the truth is, without those, I never would have dreamed this to be my future. I have had my ups and downs, and will continue to make mistakes, just as everyone does, but I think we are all grateful for the support we've been given by others and perhaps a significant other.

"Growing up means losing things, shedding certain pasts and identities, losing friends and loved ones… But there comes a time when you realize what's bloomed in place of those losses. Here at McKinley, I felt every kind of growing pain, but I was the only one standing in the way of myself. I know, looking at everyone here today, that we've survived this long, and that we owe it to our hearts to keep growing, to keep shedding parts of us to make room for the new. The truly good parts of us grow with us, and I owe this to the love I've found in Lima. We can't change our pasts, but we can let go of the heavier parts, hold tight to the light, and start our futures."

The crowd applauds for a long moment, and you take your place beside Rachel on the stage. Figgins steps back up to the microphone, and clears his throat before stating simply, "I now introduce to you the William McKinley High School graduates of 2012!"

Everyone throws their caps in the air, and you see silly string (despite multiple reminders not to bring it) shoot in the air by undoubtedly Puck. You laugh, even though your heart twinges as you look at your classmates hugging, crying, and celebrating. You turn your attention back to Rachel and wrap your arms around her. Confetti, courtesy of the glee club, falls from above as you kiss her.

"Welcome to the beginning of our futures," Rachel says with a smile, her eyes shining.

You kiss the corners of her eyes and embrace her, "Our _future_ —together," you say.

She stands on her tip-toes to press her lips to yours, and you can see the flashing lights behind your closed eyes. You lift Rachel up in your arms, and she squeals as you spin her around before kissing her again.

" _GET A ROOM!_ " you hear, and you keep kissing her as you flip off the general area you know Santana to be in.

Even though this marks the beginning of your future outside high school, you don't think anything truly ends. You feel new but sure of what's to come, wrapped up in Rachel's arms. You've given up on trying to name it all, dissect your actions and choices; you know that having Rachel beside you, you can trust your heart.

* * *

 _Fin_.


End file.
